


Sketch it Out

by orphan_account



Series: burn down, down, to the ground [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: (the real kind too), Angst, Blood and Injury, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Child Neglect, Drowning, Feelings, Gen, I wanna get better, I want mutants in the mcu, Im operating off of childhood memories and google translate people, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Imprisonment, Insecurity, Long, Mentions of Communism, No Romance, Non-Consensual Electroconvulsive Therapy, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, POV Original Character, Past Brainwashing, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Assault, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bucky Barnes, Recovery, Stalin was a bad guy, Therapy, There will be russian, WE LOVE RECOVERY, but communism slaps, but first he's real mad, he sees himself in her and needs her to get better!, idk why i'm doing this, it will be mostly wrong, it's not explicit i think but its there, lol, mentions of unhygenic behavior, she doesn't like water guys! and that's valid, so I created an elaborate thing while also dealing with me need to talk about trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:53:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23988430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: They were drowning her again. Water rushed through her nose, filled her mouth until she was forced to swallow, and still rough hands shoved her head further into the dark depths of the tub. Sketch had stopped struggling just a few seconds ago, body gone limp as she finally accepted the point of the lesson....“Such a good girl,” he purred. Everything was made sensible by the words. Of course, she should be here, before the water. Because it made her good. This was all in the service of HYDRA. He was only teaching her. She nodded once she’d regained control of her breathing.Sketch made herself a statue, kneeling before him and the tub, waiting for another lesson. Kravchenko smiled approvingly.“Would you like to do it again?” he asked.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers
Series: burn down, down, to the ground [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1729720
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	1. Failure to Perform

**Author's Note:**

> No idea why I'm doing this? Who asked for this? The answer is no one. But I've been stuck in my house and I finally decided to rewatch the Cap movies and I feel so disappointed by how much CW loses without mutants in it. So here's a mutant. And because I'm obsessed with Bucky getting better and helping people, she's also HYDRA. 
> 
> GAAAH

They’d restrained her, and she’d let them, but as she sat in the interrogation room, she wondered if she was as prepared for this mission as her handlers had assumed. 

She’d sensed Kravchenko’s irritation throughout her briefing, and she’d heard him arguing with Lentner as she’d been prepped for an extended period of active duty. If he wasn’t comfortable with her being deployed, why should she be? But the thought was incorrect, because it was contradictory to her orders. She tried to keep her face from showing anything other than the necessary anxiety. 

Letting herself get captured was one thing—being escorted into a secure room that narrowed her chance of escape if things went south was another. Sure, this was all part of the plan, but those locks on the door weren’t electronic like she’d thought they’d be. The only electricity in the room was coming out of the light fixtures, and they were dim. Not a lot of energy to pull, if push came to shove and she needed to fight. 

At least they were _smart_. 

But she felt like she was drowning in the blankness. All this space, with none of the fluttering currents she was used to. She felt empty and tired and beyond that was a deep well of dread that weighed heavily in the pit of her stomach. 

She’d been alone in this room for at least an hour, and no one had come to get her. Sketch’s brain felt disordered, but the thought of being left to starve in the barren room wouldn’t stop. Would it hurt? Did wasting away hurt? She wasn’t sure. She’d gone days without food in the past, all with the goal of stretching her limits and making her better. Idly, she wondered if that would make it last longer. 

It wouldn’t be so bad if the currents were there, if the noise was filling her head. But if she had to guess, the walls were thick and insulated. It made sense—they knew what she could do, knew what the electricity meant to her. They were suffocating her. 

When the door opened, Sketch was surprised. So much for being left to rot. Instead, a redheaded woman and a dark-haired man entered, their strides tight and controlled. The woman sat across from her, while the man took up guard just behind her, arms crossed over his chest. Both gave nothing of their thoughts away on their faces. Even when she dipped in to scan surface-level impressions, she got very little. It was agonizing to be locked out, and she couldn’t help the little grunt of pain. They noticed. 

A little shiver of fear raced up her spine. 

“Uh, hi,” she said, after they stayed silent. Probably not a good idea—they were being quiet because they _wanted_ her to talk first, but Sketch hated silence—silence meant the draw back before a blow—and the buzz of the lights wasn’t enough for her. 

She really wished they’d cuffed her hands in front of her instead of behind because she felt vulnerable with her hands looped over the back of the chair. Sketch wanted to cross her own arms across her chest, or play with a hangnail, or maybe tap out a rhythm against the metal table in front of her. Anything to fill the silence. But the pair only stared at her. She shrunk down in her chair; skin icy with fear. 

Unconsciously, her mind reached out to the pittance of energy coming off the lights. They flickered slightly, and it seemed to startle her interrogators. The man sent the woman a look Sketch couldn’t read, gray eyes flicking up to the lights. Sketch stopped pulling at the currents, and they steadied. Too late, though. The woman stared at her across the table. 

“Who sent you?” the woman asked. Her voice was soft, and if they were in any other situation, Sketch might think she sounded kind. 

“Me,” she answered, offering an awkward smile. “I, uh, sent myself. Or, I came here because I wanted to. They were offering tours.” 

“You’re operating alone?” the woman said. She leaned forward in her chair, placing a folder Sketch hadn’t noticed on the table between them. It sounded too much like a statement, and the woman didn’t sound like she was speaking to an ordinary girl, which was what Sketch was supposed to be for this mission. 

Sketch’s eyes trained on the folder. _Anything_ could be in there. She wasn’t exactly world-famous—not like some people, not like the soldier—but they could still have a substantial amount of intel about her. Maybe they’d call the mother. That one was a good actress, sure, but anything could tip them off. The thought made her laugh, which she instantly regretted. 

The redhead barely reacted, just quirked her eyebrow, but the man tensed immediately, hard eyes searching her face for something. 

“I know this looks bad,” she began, swallowing nervously. She scrambled at the thoughts in her brain, trying to construct something from her words that a normal person might say. “I can be kind of impulsive, you know? But I’m not some sort of criminal or anything. If that’s—if that folder is about me, you know that.” 

“Nora Kozlowski, 24 years old. Mother is Ewa Kozlowski, from Zastow Poland. Father is Bogdan Sokolov, born in Cleveland Ohio. Only child.” 

“Uh, yeah...” she let out a purposefully shaky breath. “Yep, that’s me.” 

The woman finally opened the folder, as if she’d only memorized that bit, and she needed to read it off now. Sketch’s eyes stayed trained on the folder. 

“Graduated from a small private college in Illinois when you were 20, with degrees in Philosophy and Political science. But your work history shows you’ve only had a string of retail jobs and did a short stint at a power plant last year. Didn’t get into law school?” 

That last bit was a question. Sketch laughed again, but there wasn’t any joy in it. What would a normal girl say? Would Nora be sad about failing to make the cut? But failure wasn’t an option for Sketch. And she was having trouble holding both people in her brain. If she was Nora, she couldn’t touch the currents. Her head hurt. 

She settled on flippant because it made her feel brave. “Didn’t apply. Lawyers are the worst.” 

The woman’s lips quirked for a second, but then she was back to the folder. “Not much friction with the police. A few parking tickets, a handful of noise complaints. A domestic disturbance when you were young.” 

Sketch made sure to give them a reaction, but she was afraid of making it too big, and the pair of them seemed to notice. The man narrowed his eyes and stepped forward. 

“Any more about that?” he asked. He had a deep voice, and the contempt she heard only made Sketch more nervous. This was _not_ going to plan at all. She _really_ should have paid better attention during her briefing—more proof that she was unprepared, which only made her more nervous. But waking up was always so confusing, and Lentner never gave her enough time to adjust. He liked to watch her panic in the dark. 

“Started out as a noise complaint,” the woman supplied helpfully. “Police were called and when they responded, you and your mother were uninjured. Your father was dead. Ruled an accidental.” 

“He slipped in the shower,” Sketch said. Her voice was thin, even to her own ears. “I...um, is this really necessary? That happened when I was a kid. And besides, I already _told_ Mr. Stark that this is all just a misunderstanding.” 

“Yeah, Tony told us what you said,” the woman said. She offered Sketch a tight smile. “But he also told us that the guards found you in the server room. And you attacked them with some sort of weapon.” 

“Weapon?” she asked. “He’s confused. I don’t have a weapon. Search me if you want, but I didn’t do that. I told the guards—I was just looking for the bathroom.” 

“The tour was on a whole other floor.” the man growled. “Natasha is she--” 

Natasha—that was the woman’s name. Which meant she was the Black Widow. Sketch tried to reconcile her excitement at that idea with her fear, but it wasn’t working. If the Widow was here, it was a bad sign. But that meant the man could be... 

But he could be someone else too. That would be too much of a coincidence, the Soldier coming to greet her already. No, he was probably just a high-level associate. Or maybe another member of the team, one Lentner didn’t have a picture of. 

The widow gave an emphatic shake of her head. “No. The intel was clear. We know the roster and she wasn’t on it. I don’t think even HYDRA couldn’t fake this level of detail. If she was a plant, we would have seen gaps in the story. Besides, she’d too young.” 

The man looked away from her to send a disbelieving look at his partner. “Is that a joke?” 

“I mean, she couldn’t have been there long enough for an infiltration project like this. That requires _decades_ of conditioning.” 

Sketch tried to follow along with the conversation, but too much information was missing. She got the gist, however. They thought she was some kind of sleeper agent, or just a plain and simple spy. Or, they didn’t _think_ it. That implied it was a lie. Sketch’s face was still, which was probably wrong. Nora would have a reaction. Nora would be angry. She jumped at that, trying to remember her cover story. 

“I’m _not_ HYDRA!” she hissed, because she couldn’t restrain herself, couldn’t wait until it would be more effective. 

“Excuse me?” the Widow asked. 

“I’m not HYDRA. Think whatever you want, but I’d rather eat my own hands than work with fuck-face asshole _Nazis_.” 

_Laying it on thick_ , she thought. Restraint. She knew what Lentner would tell her if she did something like this during training. 

“And we’re supposed to believe that?” the man asked. 

“I don’t care what you believe,” Sketch said, grinding her teeth for good measure, “but I’m not a fucking Nazi. Mom had family in the camps—a few aunts and a cousin. _Fuck_ that.” 

The Widow and the man shared a look that Sketch couldn’t read, and their minds were still carefully blank. She wondered if that was a habit of theirs, or if they knew more about her than she thought. They couldn’t know everything, but she’d gotten prodded with some sort of device on the way in. Maybe they knew she didn’t have a weapon. 

They knew _she_ was the weapon. The currents called out from above her head. Sketch closed her eyes for a second, trying to block them out. 

“Where’d you learn how to do that thing then? You sent an EMP pulse in a tightly controlled space. It didn’t even leave the room.” the Widow said. “I doubt you picked it up in Philosophy 101.” 

Sketch let out a self-deprecating snort. “I was looking for the bathroom.” 

They didn’t believe her—it was probably doing more harm than anything, sticking to the lie. But she couldn’t let it go. Maybe it was funny, or maybe Nora would think it was funny. 

“You keep telling yourself that, Nora,” the Widow said, smiling darkly. “Maybe you actually believe it.” 

Sketch tugged at the cuffs behind her, and the lights flickered a little. The man’s tension racketed up even further. 

“Bruce, Steve?” the Widow called out. She seemed to be ignoring the lights, and her voice was the epitome of calm. “Wanna come in here real quick?” 

The door opened a few seconds later. And Sketch would know the man that appeared anywhere. 

Steve Rogers was a mountain of muscle and blond hair, with bright blue eyes that scanned Sketch suspiciously. The slight, graying man who followed after was less familiar, but the name was a pretty big clue. Bruce Banner’s gaze felt a lot less accusatory, but Sketch couldn’t relax an inch either way. 

Still, she stared at Rogers with a healthy ounce of awe. The man was a legend. Lentner still railed about him sometimes, when he wasn’t complaining about HYDRA’s fall into the Potomac. 

When they didn’t immediately start talking, she couldn’t help herself. “Wow...you’re bigger than you seem on tv.” It felt like what Nora would say. 

“Thanks,” Rogers said, voice terse. He turned to Banner after giving her an appraising look. “Nat, is there any way to confirm what she just told us?” 

"Of course. I’ll get in contact with her relatives, do a thorough background check. And Bruce can run some tests. She didn’t have anything on her when we took her in. Maybe there’s an implant.” 

Sketch tensed. They were trying to scare her, and it was working, as they discussed her fate like she wasn’t even there. The feeling was familiar, but part of her thought she liked it better when Lentner did it, because he was easier to read than the Widow. 

“Even if the relatives check out, that doesn’t mean--” the man began. It was obvious what he was going to say. 

“I’m not a fucking Nazi!” Sketch exclaimed. She jerked up a bit in her chair, leaning across the table as much as she could to glare at him. “I made a mistake, ok? I stumbled into a room I wasn’t supposed to. But--” 

“Why don’t you get the test ready, Bruce?” the Widow asked. She stood, shuffling papers back into the folder. “Buck, let’s take a walk.” 

The four of them headed towards the door without another word to her. Banner was last, and the look he sent over his shoulder before he shut the door seemed apologetic. 

Sketch sunk back into the hard metal of the chair and let out a long sigh. 

This was a _terrible_ plan. 


	2. Be a Normal Person

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Banner was a strange one. Sketch, always one for playing pretend, imagined what it would be to be Nora, and she figured he might remind the girl of one of her professors. A favorite professor, even. It felt comfortable, so when he joined them on the elevator and turned to speak to her, she smiled. 
> 
> He looked uncomfortable with that for a second, but she thought it would be weird to wipe her face of emotion, and simply let the expression slide off over time. Maybe she was smiling incorrectly? Lentner had told her before that her attempts at smiles never looked right. She’d been punished frequently until she’d learned to do it the way he liked. 

“I think she’s harmless,” Clint said, as soon as they’d gotten to the conference room. He seemed to be saying it as some attempt at a joke, but it wasn’t funny. 

Bucky sent him a sharp look, and Tony laughed. 

“Harmless? The techs can’t get the servers back online. They say the system can’t get enough power to reboot.” 

“They also said it was like an EMP,” Bruce said. “If it was, and if the security footage is any indication, she could have killed everyone in the room if she wanted to. But she didn’t.” 

“And she only took out the servers,” Steve added. He looked conflicted, but Bucky wasn’t surprised. As soon as they’d seen how young she was, he’d known Steve would be torn up about this. He’d always had a soft spot for the young and the helpless—probably because he’d been both for most of his past life. 

Bruce sat heavily, scratching the back of his neck. “I have no doubt that if she’d wanted to do more damage, she could have wiped out our entire system.” 

“So, all that means is that she’s smart,” Bucky said. “Doesn’t want us to do anything drastic. But it doesn’t rule anything out.” 

“And even if she _is_ a normal girl--” 

“How can she be?” Nat asked. “Say she is acting non-maliciously. The footage doesn’t lie. That EMP came from her. At _best_ , she’s got some sort of abilities.” 

“You sounded pretty sure she wasn’t HYDRA in there,” Bucky grumbled. He didn’t mean to be so petty, but all of this was putting him on edge. 

Nat chuckled. “I was trying to put her into a more comfortable position. If she thinks we don’t know, she might do something stupid.” 

_Ah_ , Bucky thought. _At least someone is seeing sense._

“Her mother’s an illegal immigrant,” Steve said. “ _Everything_ you found on the father is shady. We don’t really know that much. I doubt they went out of their way to put themselves in the papers.” 

“All of that information could be fabricated,” Bucky snapped. “We can’t trust it.” 

“Do you think she really could be HYDRA, or maybe something else?” Tony asked Nat. 

Bucky let out a frustrated growl. “We should act like she is either way. She sure as hell fits the profile. Dangerous and fixated on us.” 

“What did you find on the father?” Clint asked. “You said shady, but what does that mean?” 

“He had ties to the Russian mob,” Nat answered. She’d tossed the folder into the center of the table, and Clint reached forward to take a read. “Maybe. The thing she said about her mother’s family seems to be true, by the way. Records say that the great-aunts were Polish resistance. They died in Dachau. And the cousin is a survivor. He lives in Chicago. We’re sending agents to confirm.” 

“We can’t put it past HYDRA to use a background like that to put her out of suspicion,” Tony pointed out. 

“We should run tests, just to see if something odd comes up,” Steve said. “And maybe we can talk to her again.” 

“I want to be there,” Bucky told him immediately. “I need--” 

“We have no concrete evidence she’s HYDRA, Buck,” Steve sighed. 

“And I don’t think she likes you very much,” Nat added. “We really shouldn’t go back in with the bad cop routine. She’s not gonna crack like that.” 

“I’ll _make_ her crack,” Bucky growled. 

“We’re not torturing her!” Bruce said, sitting up in his chair. His hair stood on end and he sent Bucky a wild look. “What if she’s telling the truth?” 

Tony scoffed, but didn’t say anything. He’d taken the folder from Clint and was flipping through quickly. 

Steve laid a hand on Bucky’s shoulder and gave him a sympathetic smile. “Buck, you should sit this one out.” 

“Fine!” he snapped. Without another word, he spun on his heel and left the room. If they wanted to put everyone at risk, he didn’t want anything to do with the decision-making process. 

*** 

Sketch’s stay in the interrogation room lasted three days. 

She’d never wondered what it would be like to be cuffed to a metal chair for three days, and now she didn’t have to. A silent guard had delivered each meal, and when she yelled loud enough they showed up to take her to the bathroom down the hall, and on the morning of the second day, a surly looking nurse had come by to draw some blood, but none of the big names came by to question her again. She didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. 

As it went, none of the treatment was particularly harsh. It was nothing compared to her lessons, so she took the time to rest while she had it. Most of her time was spent dozing, if she wasn’t going over the procedure for cleaning her weapons, or the requirements she had to meet for the glory of HYDRA, she was sleeping. Her head was blissfully empty when she slept. 

Finally, on the third day, something changed. 

Steve Rogers came in with her tray of food and unlocked her cuffs. 

“You guys should really work on your hospitality,” she muttered, making no effort to keep the bitterness out of her voice. She dug into the food immediately, even though it was a little cold and almost painfully under seasoned. It was worlds better than anything she was usually given, but she couldn’t be her and Nora at the same time. 

Nora would be angry, used to homecooked meals. Nora got three hot meals a day and her mother liked to braid her hair for her. She could almost picture the pair of them sitting at a worn little table, digging into bowls of hot porridge or something so good she couldn’t even imagine. Sketch was beginning to feel slightly jealous of Nora. No one had ever braided _her_ hair or made sure she got a good meal in before they put her to bed. But she was getting lost in the fantasy, and he looked like he’d just spoken. 

Sketch settled on a blank look, because she was afraid to ask him to repeat himself. 

“Are you comfortable, Miss Kozlowski?” he asked. “I’m sorry about the chair, but we didn’t have something more secure until now.” 

Sketch opened her mouth and Nora came out, snapping and indignant. “I’ve been chained to a chair for three days. I’m not allowed to go to the bathroom without someone watching me. And this food tastes like shit.” 

He nodded and had the grace to look apologetic when he answered her. “I’m going to move you once you’re done eating. Your new room should be better.” 

“Does it have a bathroom?” she asked moodily. 

He nodded. “Is there anything we can get you? Medication, or toiletries, or maybe you have a--” 

“You waited long enough to ask that,” she sighed. He was being nice, and it felt confusing. She knew this was all part of the mission, and nothing would sway her from completing her objectives, but Sketch was still mildly surprised that he was bothering with being _kind_. 

Kravchenko had impressed upon her just what kind of damage Captain America could do, showing her pictures of the HYDRA agents he had murdered. He’d explained how the super-soldier had ruined the Soldier, soiling him and destroying his purpose. The thought of that was terrifying. 

Sketch had to suppress a shudder at the idea of being unmade by this man, of being turned from her mission and being used as a tool against HYDRA’s goals. It was her worst nightmare. 

He was talking again. 

“I know. And I’d love to be able to promise you this is a temporary arrangement but...” 

“You still think I’m some kind of super-spy or something,” she supplied. Sketch speared the last piece of bacon on her fork, shoving it into her mouth with a thoughtful hum. “I guess I should be flattered. Sounds better than working at Starbucks.” 

He gave a strained laugh. “Trust me, it’s not all it's cracked up to be.” 

She finished all the food on her tray in silence, and when she’d pushed it away, Rogers stood. She followed close behind, unwilling to be seated while he loomed over her to re-do the cuffs. He shocked her, however, when he made no move to do so. 

“Come on, Dr. Banner is waiting at the elevator for us.”   
*** 

Dr. Banner was a strange one. Sketch, always one for playing pretend, imagined what it would be to be Nora, and she figured he might remind the girl of one of her professors. A favorite professor, even. It felt comfortable, so when he joined them on the elevator and turned to speak to her, she smiled. 

He looked uncomfortable with that for a second, but she thought it would be weird to wipe her face of emotion, and simply let the expression slide off over time. Maybe she was smiling incorrectly? Lentner had told her before that her attempts at smiles never looked right. She’d been punished frequently until she’d learned to do it the way he liked. 

The low, constant hum that the lights in the elevator exuded made her feel safe and the confidence helped immensely. 

Even if she was trapped in an enclosed space with two strange men. 

Banner was smaller than Rogers by a good margin, but he still had a few inches on Sketch. If he didn’t let his green friend out if its cage, she was only marginally confident she could kill him before he killed her. Rogers was a different matter altogether. Better to not let it get that far. 

“I really wish you’d just told us the truth,” he said. Her eyes widened for a moment, but she didn’t speak. Sketch was familiar with traps, and she wasn’t stepping into this one. “About your mutation, I mean. Mutants are...rare, but they’re on our radar. I recognized the genetic markers immediately.” 

The information was confusing for a moment. She was not a mutant. Kravchenko had explained to her before that she was a creation of HYDRA, and she was grateful that they’d been kind enough to give her the connection to the currents. Still, it helped her, so she would allow him to continue to think this. 

Sketch let out a tired sigh. “If they’re on your radar, its only because the government likes to snatch them up and take them to spooky labs. Do you think I’m an idiot?” 

“We’re not going to experiment on you,” Rogers snapped. “You don’t have to worry about that.” 

She shot him a skeptical look, but his mouth only tensed into a stern frown, and he remained silent. Sketch wanted to impress on him that nothing they’d done so far had inspired any confidence for her, but she didn’t get the chance. 

“It doesn’t answer any of the other questions, but we know now, so you don’t have to keep anything else from us,” Banner said. “If I'm being charitable, I would think you were the cause of the EMP, but it was an accident.” 

“Natasha told us that you were messing with the lights, on the first day,” Rogers broke in, frown still in place. 

Sketch felt distinctly ambushed and sidled closer to the metal wall of the elevator. Her previous belief that they’d take her to her new cell before asking questions was obviously false, and she railed at herself for getting complacent. Even worse, her attempts to settle herself were unsuccessful and she reached subconsciously for the pull of the currents. The elevators recessed lighting was bright and strong, so when she pulled, they dimmed noticeably. 

Banner’s eyes darted around, round and fascinated. He looked like he wanted to put her under a microscope. 

The flickering picked up its pace, briefly, before she fully reigned herself in. 

The elevator came to a slow stop, doors sliding open slowly, but none of them moved. Rogers and Banner were staring at her. 

“It happens when I’m nervous,” she murmured. Sketch made herself small, made herself frightened and ordinary. Nora would be scared and would want to confide. She’d seek reassurance, even from her captors. Her next words needed to be tearful and vulnerable. “It’s been like that—I've been—since I was little, and... Mom told me I had to keep it a secret. And I was so excited to come here when the tours started because you’re all so--” 

She let out a little hiccup, hoping it wouldn’t be too much; the regret and shame that flickered over Rogers’s face told her it wasn’t. 

Banner’s face was a little less readable, but he shifted uncomfortably before offering her a small smile. “Don’t think you can get this kind of experience on a normal tour,” he joked, and they finally started moving again. 

Banner stepped out first, and Rogers gestured for her to follow right after. The hallways were well lit, and Sketch relaxed against the caress of energy for a second before following after Banner. Rogers kept up a sedate pace just behind her. 

“I just...” Sketch fell quiet, thinking over her next words very carefully. What would Nora need, what would she ask for? “Can you call my mother? I just need her not to worry. I usually call a few times a week.” 

It would function as a check-in with base, and perhaps further verify her cover. 

She glanced back at Rogers, who nodded almost as soon as she asked. “Don’t worry, Miss Kozlowski. I’ll make the call myself. And—is there anything you want us to tell her? I know this isn’t the best-case scenario for any of this, but I don’t want to cause you any more undue stress.” 

“Just tell her I’m fine,” she requested. “And that she shouldn’t worry. Tell her--” Sketch paused, whether for effect or to recall the exact code words, even she wasn’t sure. “Tell her I’m interviewing for an internship.” 

“Alright, Miss Kozlowski, no problem.” 

Sketch flashed him a brief smile. He really was very nice, wasn’t he? 

She still didn’t feel bad. 


	3. Never Meet Your Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Soldier looked enraged. Sketch’s smile grew. 
> 
> “Ty dumal, chto snova byl kem-to, soldat?” 
> 
> She drank in the satisfaction as his eyes went blank. It only lasted a split second, but she felt triumphant. 
> 
> Now whose eyes were wrong? She could spot a lie just as easily as they could. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations for the Russian are in the end notes.

“This feels wrong,” Steve grumbled. He was standing with his arms across his chest, glaring down at Nat. She was perched in an office chair, ignoring him in favor of the large monitor displaying the security footage inside Nora Kozlowski’s new accommodations. “We’ve had her locked up in there for two days. She’s probably going stir-crazy.” 

He’d been insufferable ever since the brief interrogation he and Bruce had conducted while transferring her between floors. Banner was almost as bad, but Bucky didn’t listen to Banner like he listened to Stevie. 

“You think HYDRA wouldn’t think of using that against you?” Bucky asked harshly. “They know you pretty well, Steve. They know what you’re like.” 

“Buck, I’m _telling_ you--” 

“Yeah, one little chat with her “mother” and suddenly you’re ready to roll right over,” Bucky growled. “But this is the least of what we should be doing.” 

Nat sent Bucky a warning look over her shoulder, but he ignored it, turning back to the live feed. 

The girl was sitting on her bed, head in her hands, and she was rocking slightly. The back and forth motions were slight, but it didn’t escape any of their notice. The audio was a little garbled, but they could still hear the little hums she was letting out at regular intervals. 

Bucky couldn’t help analyzing everything she was doing, looking for something he couldn’t even name. Maybe he was trying to recognize himself in there, trying to remember some of his own odd quirks. The rocking felt...familiar, but he couldn’t be sure. 

“What’s with the sound?” Bucky asked, but it was a largely rhetorical question; he knew neither of them had any real answer. 

“She’s probably scared,” Steve said, frown deepening. To Natasha he asked, “Any word back from the agents you sent to Chicago?” 

Nat gave a short nod. “Apparently the cousin checks out. He's old, and senile, but he recognized the name.” 

“Any pictures?” Steve asked. “Physical evidence of her? Maybe, if he had pictures of her as a kid...” 

“No,” Nat said. Her own frown fell into place, eyes still taking in each flicker of movement on the screen. “He wasn’t really with it, either, so they couldn’t get a description. How about the mother?” 

Steve let out a heavy sigh. “She was worried—suspicious really—and she had a few questions. Namely, she wanted to know why her daughter wasn’t the one speaking. Tony figured putting her own the phone was risky.” 

“You shouldn’t have even made the call,” Bucky said. He’d argued against it for hours, but Steve was stubborn, and he’d already decided he was going to fulfill her request. “Anything she asked you to say could have been code, something to tip HYDRA off that she’s here.” 

“Would they send a team to extract her?” Nat asked him. 

Steve looked like he wanted to protest the question, but Bucky was already talking. “Probably. If what Bruce found is accurate, they put a lot of effort into her. We should prepare for the eventuality.” 

“Tony’s working on a way to counteract her enhancement. We still don’t know everything she’s capable of, which is a problem, but if we could get her under control, I’d feel a lot better about getting some shut-eye,” Nat explained. 

Before either of them could reply, the girl stilled. She’d fallen silent abruptly without them noticing, but with all eyes trained on her, she turned and stared right into the camera. Bucky couldn’t help the chill that ran over his skin. He searched for danger in her eyes, but her face only displayed discomfort. 

“That’s a _hidden_ camera?” Steve asked. 

Nat let out an affirmative sound. 

Bucky leaned forward, searching further. She looked embarrassed, a little angry. Normal reactions, maybe, to finding out you were being filmed without your knowledge—leaving out the fact that she shouldn’t have even known in the first place. 

But underneath the mask—it was one, he knew that now—there was an understanding. It reminded him of Pierce for a disorientating moment, though Pierce’s eyes had been blue. This one had dark eyes, almost black. It felt like staring into twin pits of darkness. 

Bucky didn’t realize he’d let out a sound until Steve’s hand landed on his flesh shoulder. 

“Buck, what’s up?” 

“Steve,” he breathed. 

The girl was still staring up into the camera, was still wearing her mask, but her eyes were empty. He felt like he was staring into a mirror for a terrifying instant. 

Gasping for breath, he tore his eyes away and searched out Nat. She’d spun in her chair, and when she made to ask, he shook his head. 

“I’m telling you, that girl is _lying_.” 

“Buck--” 

“Steve, shut up,” Nat snapped. She stood, closing the distance between her and the pair of men. She laid a gentle hand on the shoulder opposite Steve’s own. He couldn’t feel it. The place where metal met skin felt painfully cold. In contrast, the panic that ruled the rest of his body burned like fire. He couldn’t quite get enough air in, even as he took great panting breaths. 

“It’s her eyes, Steve,” he gasped out. “Look at her eyes.” 

They did, and Bucky had to believe they saw what he did. She looked just like he had, in all those recordings they’d found from his days with the Soviets. She was blank, and she was cold, and her head was empty, the only thoughts inside given to her by her handlers. 

He shuddered. 

“We’ll dig deeper,” Nat promised, voice hard. 

*** 

The Soldier was here. 

Sketch had gone back to her rocking, filling the air with a perfect frequency to match her new currents when the door burst open. It had been four days without any visitors, and real fear nestled under her skin for an instant. 

A small crowd came through, and she called Nora back to the forefront of her mind. She scrambled back, slamming into the bedframe in her attempt at escape. She let out a distressed groan at the brief flash of pain, a real one, because she’d overplayed that one a little. 

Rogers was first, and any kindness she’d managed to elicit previously seemed absent. The rest of them were stony-faced as well. She saw the Widow, Stark too, and at the very back, face grim, was the Soldier. If she was stupid, she would have smiled. 

He looked shaken. 

It was clear to her that the man who’d questioned her on the first day was him, with his metal arm now bare, but Sketch felt embarrassed she hadn’t known immediately. Lentner had shown her pictures of him, but she hadn’t studied them, so sure she’d know instinctually when she encountered him. Sketch was frequently foolish. 

“What’s going on?” she asked, pressing the terror forward. It sounded like a whine. 

“Cut the shit, sweetheart,” Stark said. He was in civilian clothing, which she thought was incredibly arrogant, but his smirk felt forced. “Enough with the scared little girl routine. Why are you here?” 

“ _Please_ ,” Sketch said, and she felt real panic bleed into her voice. What had she done? Where had she slipped up? 

Everything was going to plan—even if she hated the plan—and Rogers had seemed so pliant when they spoke last. She’d been sure she’d won Banner over as well, at least to a degree. She knew the agent who would receive Roger’s phone call was good, that she’d ask all the right questions and have all the right reactions. They’d even used Nora's real cousin to flesh out the illusion, an old man who wouldn’t be able to tell them much. 

She shook her head, unwilling to give herself up that easily. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please, my name is Nora Kozlowski. I’m a—I'm a fucking _cashier_. I’m sorry I lied, really, I should have told you about my mutation from the beginning, but I’m not lying about any of this!” 

The Widow’s smile was adequately chilling when she moved closer, tilting her head and searching Sketch’s face. The woman let out a thoughtful hum. 

“You’re right, Bucky,” the Widow remarked. She gave a rueful shake of her head. “The eyes aren’t right.” 

Sketch tensed. _Oh_. 

She cursed herself immediately. What had Kravchenko told her, after _every_ lesson? He'd told her she could pretend all she liked, but all he needed to do was look into her eyes to know she was lying to him. Sketch let out a shaky breath. Memories of his punishments almost threatened to send her over the edge. He’d had little patience for disobedient little girls. 

“Tell us who you really are,” Rogers barked. She was ashamed that his words made her jump, her made nerves too raw from reminiscing. 

“I’m Nora Kozlowski,” she answered automatically. It felt wrong in her mouth now. Nora was long gone now, like a slip of paper in the wind. Sketch wanted her back, felt it in her chest acutely, but that wasn’t going to happen. 

“You didn’t think we’d double check your story?” the Widow asked. “We sent people to talk to the person you called your mother, and she was long gone.” 

A flare of anger had Sketch sitting up. _That_ wasn’t part of the plan at all. The agent was meant to stay at the house for the next few months, in case of an unexpected drop in. 

“ _And_ we contacted your last job. When we showed them a picture of you, they didn’t recognize you.” 

“My name is Nora Kozlowski.” 

“No. Nora Kozlowski is either dead or missing. You’re a sloppy spy who couldn’t get her cover in proper order,” the Widow said. She was smiling. 

“My name is Nora Kozlowski.” 

Tony let out a frustrated snort. “Do you think that’s all she’s gonna say now? Maybe we broke her.” 

“She’s just being stubborn,” the Widow’s smile widened. “She’s probably embarrassed.” 

Sketch’s eyes went sharp, and the lights flickered for just a second. It hurt, not being able to defend herself. With her cover blown, who knew just what they’d do. But she was still under strict orders. 

They all tensed at her minor display, but the Widow was still smiling. 

“Go ahead, _dorogoya_ , try it.” 

The pet name had Sketch scrambling up into a crouch over the bed. Everything in her was screaming for a fight, and the currents were rushing wildly over her skin, but Lentner’s orders had been very clear. She was here for reconnaissance and information gathering—she was to knock out their servers and nothing else. For the glory of HYDRA, in search of order. 

Experimentally, she tried to lash out. 

Sketch cried out, the energy she’d pulled close sticking to her skin. It felt like her head was going to explode. Instantly, she knew what she was doing was wrong. If Lentner found out—if _Kravchenko_ heard—she'd be in for the worst punishment of her life. Maybe they’d make her sleep forever, decommission her and mark her off as a failure. She gripped her head, trying to ignore the clambering of voice that started. They were arguing, maybe, but she didn’t care. The currents were retreating, and she mourned their loss. They were mad at her; everyone was mad at her. 

“Who are you?” the Widow’s voice rang out, and the men all fell silent. 

Sketch didn’t look up, because she was a stupid, foolish disobedient little girl. Any of them could make a move now, slit her throat before she even uncovered her eyes. But her head hurt. She shook her head. 

“ _Otvetit_ _na_ _vopros_ _!_ ” 

The voice was deep and commanding, and Sketch’s headache lessened slightly. She still didn’t look up, fearful of what she’d see. Still, she needed to answer a direct order. 

Her voice was slow and quiet when she spoke. It had only been English, for the past few months, and the Russian felt heavy in her mouth. “ _Ya_ _nikto_ _._ _Ya_ _nichego_ _._ ” 

Everything was quiet for a very long time, and Sketch’s headache started subsiding slowly. She looked down at the bed through her parted fingers. The light was dimmer, kind to her eyes. 

“ _Kakova_ _vasha_ _tsel_ _?_ ” 

She let out a strangled breath. Sketch looked up, training wide eyes on the Soldier. He looked different now, more like her memories of Lentner’s photos. The hair was wrong, but the eyes were better. He'd stepped around the Widow to loom over her bed. 

“ _Pozhaluysta_ _, ne_ _zastavlyay_ _menya_ _,_ _Soldat_ _,_ ” she practically sobbed. She switched to English, searching for Lentner’s face. “I don’t want to go. I’m not finished yet.” He wasn’t there, and she was confused. "I am weak and must be corrected. I need--” 

“Buck,” an unfamiliar voice spoke, and Sketch flinched. 

“I want to go back to sleep,” she said. 

“ _Kakova_ _vasha_ _tsel_ _'?_ ” the Soldier repeated. But he sounded wrong. There was too much feeling on his face now. Her words had shaken him. 

This wasn’t right. 

Sketch let out a strangled gasp, trying to orient herself in the room. She tore her eyes away from the Soldier and landed on the Widow. The Widow wasn’t right—the situation she was in rushed into the forefront of her mind, and she pushed out his words. 

She snaked a hand up to take a handful of her own hair. She tugged violently, chasing the awareness the pain gave her. Her slip up was massive, but if she could regain control, it wouldn’t continue. 

“Stop,” she told him, but she kept a grip on her hair, just in case. “I won’t. I can’t.” 

“Tell me why you’re here!” he shouted, voice raw and edged with fear. 

“No.” 

The soldier lunged at her, and she almost dodged, but then his metal hand caught a grip on her hair. She let her own handhold go in order to strike out at him, but she couldn’t. His hands moved to her throat, and the threat was clear. But her orders stayed her hand, and all she could do was struggle briefly before the headache slammed back behind her eyes. 

His hands gripped at her neck, blocking her airways, and she squirmed. He started pressing down with his thumbs when Rogers yanked him away. 

“Bucky!” he shouted. “What the hell are you doing?” 

“She’s HYDRA, Steve. She’s a fucking HYDRA spy. When have we ever blinked an eye at--” 

“Does she look like she’s a fucking threat?” Steve asked, tossing a hand in her direction. 

Sketch had curled in on herself, all the conflicting messages coming from the room around her too overwhelming to parse. 

“If she’s HYDRA, she’s a threat.” 

“Both of you stop,” the Widow said, but they were too invested in their fight. 

“She’s obviously like you,” Steve spat. “Which means she’s as much a victim as you are. Who knows what they’ve done to her. We can’t kill her.” 

“We should,” the Soldier said. Sketch felt herself agreeing with him distantly, but she didn’t make a sound. 

“Bucky, she’s like you,” Rogers repeated. His voice was imploring, and Sketch felt a spike of hate. The Captain was too soft. Fantasies flashed in her head, visions of how quickly he’d break if Kravchenko had ever gotten his hands on him. It made her feel better. 

“I didn’t--” a brief pause, and the Soldier lets out a shaky breath. “I didn’t think there were more of us.” 

Sketch dared to look up, because her body ached and she wanted to hurt him too, and she offered the Soldier a savage smile. “Did you think you were special?” she asked. There was an edge to her voice, something unhinged. “You are nothing. You are the fist of HYDRA.” 

The Soldier looked enraged. Sketch’s smile grew. 

“ _Ty_ _dumal_ _,_ _chto_ _snova_ _byl_ _kem_ _to,_ _soldat_?” 

She drank in the satisfaction as his eyes went blank. It only lasted a split second, but she felt triumphant. 

Now whose eyes were wrong? She could spot a lie just as easily as they could. 

“Alright, let’s cut this little chat short,” Stark said, clapping abruptly. “Doubt this is going to end well. Maybe she’ll calm down after a nice nap.” 

“Stark,” the Soldier growled, but the Captain had already tugged him back, towards the door. 

“Bucky, let’s go. Nat can stay, try to get more. But _you_ can’t stay in here.” 

Sketch watched the men leave with a smug smile. Even if the plan was in shambles, it felt nice to gain the upper hand for just a moment. 

The Widow let out a small, thoughtful sound once the door had slammed shut behind her teammates. Sketch uncurled herself, comfortable only once she’d regained her crouching position on the bed. This one’s eyes weren’t wrong, and Sketch tried to bury the way it made her skin itch. This one was confident as she stood just at the foot of the bed. She wanted to get a fistful of that pretty red hair and rip it out. 

Sketch bared her teeth. 

“You’re not fooling me, you know,” the Widow said. Her voice was unshakeable, dead steady. “You’re not together. HYDRA sent you out before you were ready.” 

Sketch remained silent, watching the other woman intently. True or not, it didn’t matter—she'd failed either way. As soon as she was extracted, she’d get her punishment. She needed it, to fix all the things she had churning around in her chest. Kravchenko would put her back together again. And if she was good, they’d send her out again. 

And she wouldn’t fail a second time. 

“But why did they send you out before you were finished?” the Widow pushed on. She seemed puzzled. “They must be getting pretty desperate.” 

Sketch only shifted her position, getting her feet more fully planted beneath her. The mattress would act as a good springboard. 

She made her move in the blink of an eye, prepared to fight off the pain that would strike her brain. She needed to shake the Widow’s confidence, make her see that she wasn’t raw. But the woman’s stance had shifted just as she’d tensed her muscles, and she was ready for her as Sketch flung her body at her. 

Sketch’s chest struck the Widow’s forearms. She ignored the crunch she felt along with her headache, fist winging up to strike her target in the head. The blow was met with one of the Widow’s own, a punch to the stomach. But the punch wasn’t hard—she was restraining herself. Sketch yelled, a deep guttural sound, and flung her body around to kick at the Widow’s side. 

Fingers dug into the skin of her calf, nails sinking in briefly before she was thrown bodily across the room. The way her head struck the wall should have stopped her, but it already hurt, so she simply stood, shaking herself out. Sketch stood with her feet apart, arms hanging loosely at her sides, and she watched the Widow. 

The woman didn’t try to conceal her charge, letting out a low growl before twisting her body and slinging a leg around Sketch’s neck. She dropped low, trying to avoid the grapple, but it was no use. She felt powerful thighs tighten around her neck as they both crashed to the floor. Sketch reached up and scratched at the Widow’s face. She tore a pair of deep furrows down her cheek. 

But she didn’t like that. Her opponent brought to hands, fingers interlocked, down hard on the side of her head. When the first blow didn’t stop the scratching, she repeated the action. 

Sketch passed out after the third. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations of the russian (let me know if I missed one)  
> +dorogoya (sweetheart, sweet)  
> +Otvetit' na vopros! (Answer the question!)  
> +Ya nikto. Ya nichego. (I am nothing. I am nobody)  
> +Kakova vasha tsel' (What is your purpose/mission/objective) (This one might be off. I asked for help but my grandmother had trouble so it's google translate garbage)  
> +Pozhaluysta, ne zastavlyay menya, Soldat (Please do not make me, Soldier)  
> +Ty dumal, chto snova byl kem-to, soldat? (You thought your were someone again, Soldier?)
> 
> Um I'll try to cut down on the Russian from here on out but I got carried away because I was having fun getting my grandmother to help me with the approximations. She got a kick out of how google translate garbled some of what I was trying to say.


	4. Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short one! Not that this matters because I'm posting like 12 chapters at once.

“What happened!” Wanda’s gasp had the room turning in unison as Natasha limped into the meeting room. 

She had a nasty pair of scratches on her cheek, her bare arms were covered in the beginnings of one giant bruise, and her hair looked like a mess. 

“Little brat attacked me as soon as you guys left. I think I hurt her feelings,” Nat shrugged. When she sat, it was with a grimace. Bruce was out of his chair and fussing over her in an instant, but she shooed him away impatiently. When he offered to patch her up, it looked like she might hit him. She turned to Tony instead. 

“Friday,” Tony called out to the room. 

The AI responded immediately “Yes boss?” 

“Send Dr. Cho up. We’ve got a first aid kit situation.” Tony looked tired as he scanned Natasha for any more serious injuries. “It is a first aid kit deal, right?” 

Nat nodded. 

“Of course, boss.” 

“We shouldn’t have left you alone with her,” Steve said. They’d only gotten to the higher levels a few minutes before Nat. “I’m sorry, Nat.” 

“It’s fine. The kid doesn’t even seem to know what she’s doing. Which is the issue,” Nat said. 

“What are you all talking about?” Pietro cut in before she could launch into her report of just what exactly had happened in the cell. 

“HYDRA agent attacked the servers. We were down on the first level questioning her when you two got back from your trip,” Steve answered. 

The twins shared a concerned look, but when Pietro began to ask another question, Wanda laid a gentle hand on his chest and shook her head. 

“As I was saying,” Nat began again. “She’s got no idea what she’s doing; I got her down in a few minutes. And whatever the hell happened between Bucky and her was... Well, no seasoned HYDRA agent would have broken down like that.” 

Nat sent Bucky a concerned look, but he didn’t say a word. His eyes were trained on the scratches on her face. If Tony and Steve hadn’t pulled him out, they wouldn’t even _be_ in this situation. 

“So she’s young,” Bruce said. He shrugged, misunderstanding just what Nat’s word might mean. “We already knew that.” 

“Besides the fact that she’s enhanced in a way we don’t know the total extent of,” Clint pointed out, “she’s a fucking fresh recruit. Not a good sign.” 

“Why would HYDRA send an untested asset right to our front door,” Bucky said from behind gritted teeth. “It’s either a trap or they’re so backed into a corner they’re dangerous.” 

“I don’t like either of those options,” Tony said. “Nope, HYDRA was bad enough when they weren’t willing to be stupid. What are we doing about this, Capsicle?” 

He’d turned slightly towards Steve, but he didn’t meet his eyes. 

Steve looked worn out, shoulders slightly slumped, but as soon as they all turned towards him, he straightened. “I meant what I said in the interrogation room. I think she’s like Bucky, which means she’s not responsible for her actions. We need to deal with that first.” 

“Deal with that? What does that mean?” Bruce asked. 

Steve leveled a glare at the doctor. “It means we fix her, and _then_ we figure out what to do with her.” 

Bucky felt helpless rage for the second time in a handful of days. But underneath that was a twinge of guilt. Her blank eyes flashed whenever he closed his eyes. The way she’d snapped at the familiar sound of a command barked in Russian made his stomach twist. Just a year ago, that had been _him_. 

“How do we even go about doing that?” Bruce asked. “Barnes is a special case—he had you to trigger his recovery.” 

“So?” Bucky snapped. 

“So, you had a lifeline. We don’t even know this girl. She could have been with HYDRA for her entire life. We’d have to reverse engineer the brainwashing.” 

“Bucky,” Nat said, voice soft. Her fingers were brushing gently over her new scratches, touching but not. Her face was twisted in a grimace, but she didn’t stop. 

“No,” Steve answered immediately. “Bucky, we can’t ask you to do that.” 

“It was _your_ idea, Rogers,” Clint pointed out. His tone was mild, but Steve glared across the table at him anyway. 

“I’m off the table anyway,” Nat said. “I really pissed her off.” 

“She didn’t seem particularly fond of Barnes either,” Tony said. “Not that I blame her.” 

“Maybe I could try to--” Wanda’s words were barely out of her mouth before Bucky snapped. 

“Absolutely not! You’re not rooting around in her head.” 

Pietro sat up in his chair, eyes filled with anger, but Wanda put out another restraining hand. “It is fair,” she said. 

Steve looked frustrated about where this conversation had headed, but there was a resigned set to his shoulders. “We should try someone else first. Buck, you’re a last resort.” 

It was frustrating, but Bucky knew not to argue. 

He nodded once and sat back. He only spoke when directly addressed, mind still racing with memories and the empty pits of her eyes. 

*** 

_They were drowning her again. Water rushed through her nose, filled her mouth until she was forced to swallow, and_ still _rough hands shoved her head further into the dark depths of the tub. Sketch had stopped struggling just a few seconds ago_ _, body gone limp as she finally accepted the point of the lesson._

_But the hands didn’t move until black spots danced across her vision. And then Kravchenko was there, patting her cheeks and offering her one of his rare smiles. She leaned into the soft touch, gasping for air._

_“Such a good girl,” he purred._ _Everything was made sensible by the words._ _Of course,_ _she should be here, before the water. Because it made her good. This was all in the service of HYDRA. He was only_ _teaching her. She nodded once she’d regained control of her breathing._

_S_ _ketch made herself a statue, kneeling before him and the tub_ _, waiting for another lesson. Kravchenko_ _smiled_ _approvingly._

_“Would you like to do it again?” he asked._

_She knew the wrong answer—she'd given it before, and it only made things worse—but her lungs burned, and her head felt like it might explode. It took an immense amount of_ _willpower to speak._

_“Yes, sir,” she croaked._

_He hummed happily, hands returning to the back of her hair, fisting in the dark strands. “Breathe deeply,_ malen'kiy soldat _,” he murmured._

_He shoved her back into the tub and she took a huge gulp of water. His hand at the back of her head was warm, and through her panic, Sketch hoped he’d keep administering her lesson. She didn’t like it when the_ _agents_ _taught her. They didn’t understand_ _when_ _she was being good_ _._

Sketch woke with a choked gasp, her own fingers scrambling at her neck. It took several terrifying seconds to realize there was nothing stopping her breathing, and she sank into the soft mattress as her heart began to slow its thundering pace. 

The memory itched at her, and anxious moths fluttered around her belly. Sketch needed to be extracted soon, so she could be put back to bed. The dreams always went away when they put her to bed. 

Her head hurt, and when she inspected herself, cataloging injuries in a removed manner, she noticed extensive bruising along her arms and a twinge in her rubs. Bruised or sprained, perhaps; not broken, but when she rose from the bed, it sent a shock of pain through her. She pushed through it to get her feet under her and get off the bed. 

She noticed almost immediately that she was in a different room. The layout was the same, the furniture identical, but the view out the window was slightly different. Perhaps she’d done damage to the previous room when she attacked the Widow? 

Her clothing was also changed. The thought did not alarm her, but it was curious. Her civilian disguise had been replaced with loose, generic-looking pyjamas. A soft grey t-shirt—much too big for her—and a pair of running shorts. She wore no underwear. 

Sketch reached out for the currents, disliking the idea of dwelling on the clothing change. They responded immediately, and she wasn’t met with another headache. She made a soft sound in the back of her throat as the energy brushed over her skin before sinking deeper. The healing had already begun, as it should, and the currents only helped it along. 

After a few moments spent petting the air around her, Sketch scanned the room once again. There was another camera, in the same corner relative to the bed as the previous room, which she watched for just a moment. She could disable it, but she knew she’d have visitors if the security feed went out. Instead of that, she strode towards the door which she knew didn’t lead out into the hall. 

It opened as she approached, and when she peered inside, she found a bathroom identical to the other one. She contemplated washing but deemed it unnecessary. It wasn't due to the dream, but rather practicality. Sketch was sure of this. 

She turned on her heel and went back to the bed to curl up and wait. 

_“Do you know what that is?”_

_Sketch peered up into the glowing box, trying to make out what she saw beyond frosted glass. All she got was the indistinct impression of a man. She was too small to see anything interesting and_ _turned away_ _. Her attention narrowed in on the man beside her. His gaze was intent on the man in the box. But the man in the box wasn’t important like this man was—she couldn’t worry about something else that got put to sleep. She knew what that meant. The thing in the box was just a tool, like her._

_“I don’t,” she answered honestly._

_The man smiled, tucking his arms behind his back and gazing up at the thing in the box with obvious pride. “This is the Asset. This is the_ _fist_ _of HYDRA. It works to bring order to the world.”_

_She nodded. It was just as she’d thought; the thing in the box was like her, and so it was irrelevant._ _Its_ _value was_ _only in that_ _it_ _would help create the world HYDRA wanted._

_“Kravchenko thinks you could be like the Asset. Would you like that?_ _”_

_The question was a tricky one. Sketch knew it didn’t matter what she wanted because she was a tool, a_ _weapon in the making. But he was peering down at her like he wanted an answer. Kravchenko would be getting impatient by now, and the ghost of a hand in her hair made her blink. The important man waited, though._

_Finally, when wracking her brain could not produce an adequate answer, she said, “I don’t understand the question.”_

_The important man frowned_ _thoughtfully_ _. “Faulty training,” he sighed. “We should have given you to Gaspard.”_

_Sketch didn’t reply, because he didn’t want one. She managed to stay still for a few minutes as he seemed to analyze her face, but she found her gaze drifting back the thing in the box—the Asset. She was still too far away to make_ _out details, but there was the streak of dark hair and she thought she saw a chin. Frost littered the tiny window in the door._

_Sketch knew how cold it was in there, and a treacherous bit of sympathy passed through her before she squashed it. One did not feel sympathy for a thing, and a thing should not be capable of sympathy. But if she had to keep reminding_ _herself_ _she was a thing, was it even true_ _?_

_The important man was looking away from her, addressing one of the agents. “Tell Kravchenko to start her on the chair. She’s too soft.”_

_He'd seen it_ _all_ _on her face._

_Sketch wondered what the chair was._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> +malen'kiy soldat (little soldier)


	5. Malfunction as a Function of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sketch was malfunctioning too, and there was a hope at the back of a head, that one the extraction came they’d take the Soldier too, that they might be repaired together. Now that there was another, she wanted to be around it. Maybe going to the chair would not be so lonely if he was screaming beside her. And it said it didn’t remember her visit when the important man had rearranged her life around the chair and the electricity and the ice, but maybe it was lying to her.   
> ...
> 
> “You killed your handler. I remember them telling me that. But you can come back with me, and mine can repair you,” she said, barely containing her excitement. “We could--” 
> 
> “Shut up,” it hissed. Another step back, but this one was bigger. 

“I won’t speak to you,” Sketch said. “I would like to see the Soldier.” 

It was the only thing she’d say to them, each time they opened the door to ask her more questions. She’d finally remembered him, and she had a few questions of her own for him. 

But it had been days since he’d come in and tried to kill her. Dr. Banner had been the first to try speaking to her, with his weak smile and sorrowful eyes. She hadn’t attacked because she knew what he was capable of when pushed, but she also hadn’t spoken to him beyond her standard request. 

Stark came after. She had little patience for him and got a good punch in before he fled with a look of contempt thrown over his shoulder. He was followed by a new man, blonde and irritating, who got the same words Banner had. The Widow was next. 

Sketch did nothing. She did not speak or move, and the woman seemed to understand she was being dismissed. Still, she sat and spoke for a few minutes, little things meant to goad Sketch. It didn’t work—not obviously anyway. 

The Captain was here now. His stern face got sterner when she spoke. 

“Bucky’s not coming in here,” he told her. 

Sketch tilted her head at his stubborn words. “This is foolish. I will speak to the Soldier and no one else.” 

“Last time you _spoke_ to him, he almost killed you,” Rogers pointed out. He was frustrated, pacing before her. 

Sketch only shrugged. 

“Why him?” he asked. 

Wasn’t this obvious? “It is the Soldier. It will understand my words.” 

He didn’t like that. Rogers flinched at the words and stopped pacing. He rounded on her with a fierce look in his eyes. “Don’t call him _it_ ,” he snapped. “If you want to speak to him, you can’t call him that.” 

Sketch perked up. It felt better, knowing that they were taking her request seriously now. No more foolish visits from useless people. “He will understand my words,” she corrected, feeling magnanimous. 

Rogers jerked a little, perhaps expecting her to put up a fight, but with a sharp nod and an ever-deepening frown, he strode quickly to the door. He was only gone a few seconds before the door opened back up and he led the Soldier in. 

It looked like a wreck. Its skin was pale and clammy, its hair hanging around its face in lanky strands, and there were pronounced bruises under wide gray eyes. 

“I’m not leaving,” Rogers told her with a voice of steel. It brokered no complaints, and she didn’t bother raising one. She’d suspected it would be this way, if for no other reason than to keep the Soldier from attacking her again. 

“Like we talked about, Bucky,” Rogers said, and his eyes softened immediately. 

The Soldier gave a jerky nod before its eyes landed on her. Its flinch was almost imperceptible, but she caught it, nonetheless. 

Before he could begin questioning her, however, Sketch leaned forward eagerly. “Do you remember me?” she asked. 

It felt very much like she was meeting a famous person. Her entire life, she’d heard things about the Soldier, the Asset, the fist of HYDRA. Kravchenko used to tell her during her lessons that one day those damn Russians and Americans would be ashamed because he was making her better and stronger and smarter than it was. And the important man—the one she knew was Pierce now, who was in fact incredibly important—he'd seen her and deemed her lesser anyway. 

After their visit to America, Sketch’s lessons had changed, and she’d spent more time with electricity running through her brain than not. The Soldier’s fault. 

“Do you remember my visit?” she pressed when it didn’t answer. 

“What visit?” it finally spoke, voice a low growl. 

“A man brought me to see you when you were asleep.” Her voice was little more than a breath, but it had a profound effect on the Soldier. Its shoulders tensed and it squinted hard at her. 

“I don’t remember that,” it croaked. 

She nodded. It was foolish to think the Soldier could have remembered her anyway. It had been asleep, and from her experience, there wasn’t a lot that came through the ice and the metal. Only the loudest or most significant events could reach through the cold. 

“Bucky,” Rogers said, his voice holding a note of warning. Sketch sent him an irritated look. 

The Soldier settled, after a tense moment. “Your handler—who was it?” 

Sketch shrugged. “I can’t tell you that.” 

“So, he’s the same. You’ve had the same handler for years?” 

She nodded; it wouldn’t hurt to give him this information. “He raised me, trained me.” 

Rogers made a startled sound. “You were a child when they started?” 

Sketch kept her eyes trained on the Soldier. She would not answer his questions, only the Soldier’s. 

“Did they make you different? Or were you born with your abilities?” the Soldier said. It didn’t even bother with Rogers’s foolish question. She was glad, because it showed how logical it could still be. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Do you have a family? Do you remember living without HYDRA?” 

The question was...incorrect. Sketch's face screwed up into confusion. Kravchenko was her handler and HYDRA was her purpose, leaving no room for family. The Soldier should know this. Family was for...it was for normal girls like Nora, girls who had mothers and went to school and got married. Sketch wasn’t a girl, wasn’t a person like Nora had been. Her jaw clenched, and the confusion turned to anger. She glared up at the Soldier. 

“I am nothing. I am not a person. _Sim'ya_ _-_ _dlya_ _lyudey_.” 

The Soldier’s eyes narrowed on her, and for a moment she thought she’d made a mistake. There was too much knowing on its face. But then it was gone. What did he know? What did he see? 

“What do you call yourself?” 

The question was wrong, but the knowing made sense now. The Soldier must have seen something she couldn’t hide. Lentner told her she didn’t have a name, she was “the girl” to the doctors and agents who trained her and did their tests, and Kravchenko called her a little soldier when she was good. These were her only permitted names. 

In her head, though, she was Sketch. 

She didn’t know where the name came from—it hadn’t been given to her—but it had been part of her since she was small. The English of it had always felt nice in her mouth, but she liked how it sounded in lots of languages. She’d never told anyone about it, its place only in her inner monologue, but the Soldier seemed to _know_. Why would it ask the question like that if it didn’t? 

“You’re nothing to them, but you are something to yourself,” it said. The knowing wasn’t in its eyes anymore, but in its words. 

“Sketch,” she said. There was fear in her heart, and the room seemed to hold its breath, but her headache didn’t rear up again. No lightning came through the ceiling to strike her down. Once again, the word felt right for her, and she stared up at the Soldier beseechingly. It gave her nothing in return, face carefully blank. 

Would it punish her? But it was using a name too, and she wouldn’t hesitate to throw the fact in its face. It wanted to act like a person, so it couldn’t be mad that she’d named herself. 

Indignant, she glared again. “You can’t be angry. They call _you_ a name too. Even though you don’t deserve one.” 

“Did your handler call you that?” he asked. 

She gave a mean laugh. “Foolish question. You know he didn’t.” 

“Who, then?” Rogers asked. 

Her eyes didn’t leave the Soldier, but she could see the question echoed on its face, so she answered. “I gave it to myself. I will be punished for it. But not by the Soldier, because _he_ is guilty too.” 

“I’m not going to punish you,” it told her, volume picking up as it denied her accusations. 

“Because you are malfunctioning?” she asked before she could think over her words. 

The Captain and his team had obviously broken the Soldier, so the question was a good one, but Sketch wasn’t sure why she cared to get its perspective. It was a stupid idea, to ask a tool if it was broken. One should just fix it. 

Sketch was malfunctioning too, and there was a hope at the back of a head, that one the extraction came they’d take the Soldier too, that they might be repaired together. Now that there was another, she wanted to be around it. Maybe going to the chair would not be so lonely if he was screaming beside her. And it said it didn’t remember her visit when the important man had rearranged her life around the chair and the electricity and the ice, but maybe it was lying to her. 

Sketch rose from the bed, taking a creeping step towards the soldier. He stepped back, but not very far, just enough to give them both space. 

“You killed your handler. I remember them telling me that. But you can come back with me, and mine can repair you,” she said, barely containing her excitement. “We could--” 

“Shut up,” it hissed. Another step back, but this one was bigger. 

“We could be repaired at the same time. I’ve never seen someone else in the chair and--” 

He slapped her. 

The Captain moved somewhere in front of her, but she was ducking, hand clasped to her cheek. The pain was negligible, but still, she was shocked. The Soldier wasn’t supposed to strike her. She was being _nice_. 

“Why did you do that?” she groaned, peeking up through her hair to stare at him— _no_ , not him, it. 

Rogers was restraining it, arms wrapped around its shoulders as it snarled at her. She stood a little but kept her head bowed and touched lightly at the new injury. She worked her jaw and rubbed at the burning skin. 

“Bucky, come on,” Rogers grunted as he compelled the Soldier to back away from her. “We’ll try again later.” 

“Don’t leave!” Sketch said. 

“Listen, lady,” Rogers snapped, “you’ve done enough damage.” 

“But he’s--” She broke her words off, unsure how she would finish. The Soldier looked distressed, and there was a niggling sense of something close to guilt in her head. 

“I’m not going back,” it told her, and its voice was deceptively steady. “I’m not, and neither are you.” 

*** 

Bucky stared up at the ceiling, though the dark of the room kept it indistinct. Steve and Natasha were waiting outside in the common room, giving him a breather before he gave a formal debriefing. 

Nothing was settled in his head. Flashes of memory assailed him, and an ache had settled into his shoulder where the metal met scar tissue. Cold. He was cold even under the blankets, and he couldn’t get Pierce’s face out of his head, couldn’t stop feeling his hands on him—his chin, his shoulder...other places. 

The way she’d talked about the chair had sent him over the edge and Steve had barely been able to pull him back. 

It was like she _missed_ it, and everything about her had confirmed that. He felt the echo of it in his own thoughts. The first few weeks after he’d found Steve, it had been a struggle not to beg for the release the shocks could offer. 

His wipes had killed any thought or feeling, they’d made him empty, and it was always easier to be empty than to be overflowing with fear and anger. She wanted to be empty too. It was obvious she’d been going for long enough outside of HYDRA control for bad memories to come back, and every day she stayed here, they probably got worse. It was its own form of torture. 

He didn’t know how to explain all of this to the team, besides Natasha maybe, and part of him wondered if killing the girl was kinder. On the bad days, he wished Steve had killed _him_. 

Bucky flung the blanket off, because wallowing was making everything worse, and hurried out into the common room. The rest of the team was decidedly _busy_ right now, and Bucky was grateful for it. He didn’t know if he could look at them all when they would just offer him pity and wouldn’t understand. It was bad enough that Steve had insisted on being there. It would have been better with just Natasha. 

As soon as he crossed the threshold of his bedroom, he heard them fall silent. He hadn’t caught the words, but it was obvious they’d been discussing him. He took heavy steps into the common room. Steve leaned against the window, eyes trained on him, while Nat was curled up on one of the sofas, a mug of something warm clutched close to her. Her face was healing, but Cho had warned her there might be some faint scars. 

“She slipped up,” he said. Steve looked puzzled for a second, probably thinking that the entire conversation had been a slip up on both ends, but he shook his head. “Her Russian—it's accented.” 

“I didn’t hear that,” Nat said. “When she spoke the other day, I didn’t hear anything off.” 

“This time, when she told me that... When she told me that she didn’t have a family, it sounded Ukranian—or I mean, it _was_ Ukranian.” 

Nat sat up, smile spreading across her face. “Friday, can you get a line on Tony?” 

“Of course, Miss Romanoff,” the AI said. 

“I thought Ukraine was clear?” Steve said. Bucky had too—the newly reformed Shield, small as it was, had sent several HYDRA base locations their way, and the Avengers had been picking them off for the better part of the last year. Ukraine’s base was, as far as they knew, abandoned. It was near the bottom of the list for that very reason. 

“What’s up, Romanoff?” Tony’s voice filled the room, piped in through recessed speakers. 

“We’re going to check up on that abandoned Ukrainian base,” Nat said. “Apparently it might not be so abandoned after all.” 

“You sure?” 

“She’s Ukrainian,” Bucky said. “Or she was taught to speak there.” 

“If it is abandoned, there might still be intel, records. But if she’s was held there the entire time, they have to have a big enough staff to maintain her. And we could figure where they took her from,” Steve said. 

“I’ll get the quinjet ready,” Tony said. Exhaustion was apparent in his voice, but Bucky couldn’t bring himself to feel concerned. Stark could handle himself. 

Nat set her coffee cup down on an end table. “We’ll suit up. Could you tell Clint and Sam to get ready?” 

Tony confirmed before killing the connection. 

“We want the twins too?” Steve asked. He didn’t look happy at the thought, but if they were going up against a populated HYDRA bunker, they’d need all hands on deck. 

Nat shook her head. “Too noticeable. Getting into the country and getting out quietly is more important. I doubt the Ukranian’s would be happy to see us.” 

“When are we leaving?” Bucky asked. 

Steve and Natasha exchanged a glance before Steve pushed off from the wall. He raised his hands in a placating gesture, his face twisted with guilt and concern. “Buck, you can’t come. If she was really kept there, if any of that could be a trigger for you--” 

Bucky’s eyes slid shut, and he raised his hand to stop the words. Steve was right, he was right, and it killed to admit it. “I can’t...I can’t do _nothing_ ,” he said. Because _everything_ about this situation was a trigger for him. She was a trigger, and her words felt like knives dug into the meat of his chest, nails scraping at the insides of his skull. 

“You won’t be,” Nat said. “You’re gonna keep talking to her. Bruce will observe from outside of the room and pull you out if things get out of hand.” 

Steve nodded, albeit reluctantly. “You know what she’d been through. You can use that to help her.” 

Bucky opened his eyes and met Steve’s own. “This is a bad idea.” 

The laugh that elicited only made him feel slightly better. 

“I know, jerk. I know.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> +Sim'ya - dlya lyudey (family is for people)(this one is...probably wrong)


	6. Names as Charity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the female doctor holds out the bit, she opens her mouth obediently. Her eyes search for praise in the doctor’s eyes but she finds none. She closes her mouth too soon, coming very close to biting. The spite feels good for only a moment before she remembers that she’s trying to be good. 
> 
> “Go tell Kravchenko we’re starting,” one of the doctors calls out, just as the apparatus streaming with currents come down to surround her head. She hates the way it blocks her periphery because her teacher always told her how important it was to have a wide-angle on her surroundings. 
> 
> “All clear.” 
> 
> “Go.” 
> 
> The currents tear into her head and she forgets her lessons. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Descriptions of torture in the italics

_The currents were angry at her._ _Everyone_ _was angry at her._

_Kravchenko sat stone silent and glaring in the corner, even though he usually sat with her during her lessons and drew her back to herself, putting her words back into her head and making her_ _what she needed to be. Even the doctors looked angry, their movements jerky and harsh as they pushed her back into the chair_ _and strapped her in tightly._

_The only one who wasn’t was_ _Lentner_ _, and the look of_ _ambivalence_ _on his face told her nothing._

_“Explain your failure,” he ordered mildly. Sketch’s eyes darted between him and Kravchenko, but her teacher gave her nothing._

_“I was weak...I let the agent disarm me,” she said, her tone clipped and distant. It was the chair, making her less than nothing. Her head would be empty soon, so she was sinking into the feeling. Even though they were all angry._

_“Why?”_

_She could not answer that question. It required a level of introspection she wasn’t capable of as her head was pushed back onto hard metal and the hum of energy kicked_ _up in the machine behind her_ _._

_“Why?” Kravchenko barked from his chair._

_She frowned. “I do not know.”_

_“Because you are a failure. A disobedient shade of what you could be,” her teacher shouted. He was standing, striding across the room towards her._

_It should make her fearful, should make her shrink back, but it does neither. She is in the chair now, and her punishment is already coming. It can’t get worse. Her eyes dim as the currents drift over her skin, but they are angry and don’t come when she calls—not that she’d tried_ _. That is against the rules._

_“Explain_ _it_ _more clearly_ _to her_ _,”_ _Lentner_ _ordered_ _. He sounded impatient for this to be over._

_Kravchenko let out an angry_ _grunt but_ _complied. “You allowed pain to cloud your mind. But pain means nothing to you. Little soldier, you do not get to feel pain.”_

_“Yes sir,” she replied mechanically._

_He turned away, too disgusted to look at her because she was a weak failure of a thing. When_ _Lentner_ _gave the order, the currents bit into her skin._

_She screamed._

And she was still screaming as she was released from the dream. Her skin was wet with sweat and her throat raw, as if she’d been screaming for an extended period of time. 

“Calm down.” 

Sketch’s voice cut off abruptly, and she twisted out from under the blanket to rush off the bed. She put her back to the wall, staring at the Soldier. It had brought a chair this time and was sitting stiff-back near the door. Her breath came in ragged pants as her eyes swept the rest of the room in search of others. But there was no one else here. It took several minutes for her heartbeat to slow, and the Soldier didn’t speak again. 

“What do you want?” she snapped, uncomfortable with how easily it had gotten the drop on her. Her own weakness was sickening, and it was leaving her on edge. Self-flagellations followed, her own mind making up for the absence of Kravchenko. It could have throttled her in her sleep, and she would have deserved it. 

“To talk,” it told her. 

It still looked unsteady, face pale and haggard with exhaustion, but it also looked clean and well cared for. The scraggly hair on its chin looked less like poor hygiene and more like a deliberate choice, and its hair was combed and tucked up into a bun. 

In comparison, Sketch was disheveled. Her hair had gone unwashed for more than a week, hanging down her back in greasy strands, and she smelled bad. Each time the thought of conducting personal maintenance arose, she gave herself an excuse, trying to pretend it wasn’t because of the dream about drowning. It would be foolish to clean herself while imprisoned. Being without clothes made her too vulnerable, and unready if she was given a chance at escape. 

“I do not want to talk today,” she informed the Soldier. Her tone was formal. The sentence was laughable; when had wants mattered? But she knew it would take this to heart. It and its foolish friends cared about wants. 

Or maybe not. “I know you don’t. But you had a bad dream, and I bet you want to forget it. Talking will help.” 

“I am malfunctioning,” she corrected. Sketch stayed up against the wall, anxious at the thought of being closer to him. This fear felt unreasonable, considering the eagerness with which she’d asked him to return to her handler. Why did she feel both things at once? 

“You’re remembering,” it told her. It seemed quite sure. “It will get worse.” 

Sketch shook her head. “This is a result of my capture. When I am extracted, they will fix it.” 

“It’s not _fixing_ ,” the Soldier bit out. “They’re breaking you. The chair makes you forget, so that they can fuck with your head.” 

This was a stupid conversation. Sketch pushed off from the wall and flopped back onto the bed. She wanted to show him she was not frightened, so she lounged against the soft mattress, turning away from him to study her fingernails. “I don’t want you to be fixed anymore,” she told it. The sentiment was petulant, which had not been her primary aim, but she did not correct herself. 

It laughed, which surprised her, and she tossed it a startled look. She had not heard it laugh before, and it felt strangely nice. 

Sketch shook her head at her own thoughts. 

“I know you mean for that to be hurtful, but I appreciate that.” 

“Our commander disliked you,” she said; aimed for casual, but landed on cautious instead. “He and my handler intended for me to surpass you, but Commander Pierce was... He was more experienced with fixing his tools. His methods worked better than my Commander’s. They did not like that.” 

It shifted uncomfortably in its chair, jaw working as it digested her words. 

“You weren’t put in the chair at first?” it finally asked. 

Sketch settled further into the bed and shook her head. “My handler disliked it. He didn’t agree with traditional techniques.” 

“He told you all of this?” 

“He made me read his notes in order for them to be transcribed by a technician.” 

This angered the Soldier. It stood from the chair, and Sketch tried not to flinch as it began pacing the length of the room, bringing to mind the image of a caged tiger. All muscles were tensed, and it sent intermittent glances at her. 

“The man who showed me to you—that was Pierce?” it asked. 

She nodded. More anger, with a flash of fear as well. Sketch’s eyes skimmed the length of its metal arm. She hadn’t bothered studying it previously, but as it seemed to struggle with her answer, she reached out with her senses. There was a low level of energy coming off of it, cold and controlled. It felt different from the currents that filled the rest of the room, and when she sent an experimental tug, it stopped. Its flesh hand shot across its body, inspecting the metal with a distressed sound. 

“What did you do?” it snapped. 

Sketch didn’t answer right away, tugging again, but the energy was too strange, and there wasn’t anything she could shape. She sighed and settled her head back into the cushion of her folded arms. “Don’t worry, Soldier, I cannot make it do anything.” 

It didn’t look comforted by her words. 

Without the arm to toy with, Sketch went back to studying it. Past the twisting emotions on its face, the Soldier was well crafted. The lips were plush, and the nose was straight and long, and the jaw was sharp and angular. Something about the shape of its eyes made her think of a small animal, something one might want to comfort and console. Sighing, she sat up further, tucking her arms around herself. 

“Don’t call me Soldier,” it told her. “If you agree, I’ll use your name too.” 

She tilted her head. Had it been purposefully withholding that from her? She hadn’t noticed. But the proposal felt interesting either way. The thrill of it was equal parts frightening and compelling. No one had ever spoken it before with the intention of addressing her, and she wanted to know how the word felt from someone apart from her. 

“You want me to use your name?” she asked. “We are both malfunctioning to a distressing degree.” 

Another laugh. 

“Fine. I will call you Bucky,” she acquiesced. It was a small thing, to agree. It was not functioning properly anyway. Calling it the Soldier felt like cheapening the title. 

“Then we have a deal, Sketch,” it said. 

*** 

_They are doing routine maintenance, and she knows she must be good, but the_ _doctor's_ _hands don’t feel like Kravchenko’s. They aren’t steady and warm like her teacher. The female doctor who is drawing blood wears latex gloves, and_ _underneath her skin is cold as ice._ _She looks up into her face sometimes and there_ _is_ _disgust. Sketch itches at the sight, but she knows she cannot move._

_“Any change?” the other doctor asks. He sounds irritated, which is a bad thing, but Sketch has been very still, and obedient, so she is confused. What_ _is the source of his irritation? How can she be better?_

_“Reactions seem_ _irregular_ _. Are we sure we followed the procedure correctly?” the female doctor asks. She’s finished drawing blood, but her hands_ _stay_ _. It is a heavy weight on the hollow of_ _her_ _elbow_ _, and Sketch wishes she’d stop touching her_ _._

_“_ _Of course_ _we did!_ _I read the instructions myself,_ _” the male doctor snaps._ _“Even if it’s all in English. Fucking_ Americans _.”_ _Sketch flinches, almost_ _imperceptibly_ _, but the female doctor notices. Her face shifts from disgust to something else, something like fear._

_“Stay still, girl,” the woman orders, voice hard. It is the kind of order Sketch thinks she can disobey, because this is just a doctor and it might prove impossible to fulfill, but she follows anyway._

_If she is bad, they will report that to Kravchenko, and he’s become less forgiving since they started putting her in the chair._

_They are putting her in the chair again today; it is the only explanation for all of these tests, and she is frightened, but she has to behave well or face punishment._

_The pain of it is the worst, she thinks often, but close behind that is the way she loses herself after. She forgets her name then, and it takes days for Sketch to come back and she tests the word on her tongue. It is risky, because she needs to be careful no one discovers she is renaming herself, and the anxiety always cause_ _s her to become foolish._

_And sometimes it makes her forget lessons—not the most important ones, the ones about fighting and breaking prisoners and withstanding pain, because those stay no matter what, but lessons about Kravchenko. She forgets his name, sometimes, and it makes him angry. She forgets how he likes his_ _coffee, and whether the soldier that brings her meals is_ _benign_ _or cruel._

_These are unimportant lessons, she understands on some level, non-crucial to the glory of HYDRA but they are what_ she _cares about._

_Sometimes, after the chair, she can’t feel the currents, and when she reaches out to_ _them,_ _they lash out or struggle. Kravchenko tells her that she’s killed many of her doctors because of this, and he once whipped her with his belt_ _15 times; that was how many of HYDRA’s people she had killed because she was weak. She holds that number in her head and wonders is it means she will never be a good girl._

_When the doctors finally finish with her tests, they shove her back into the chair—too rough because they are afraid of her—and strap her in carelessly. All the straps bite into her skin, and she knows she will wake up bloody from rubbing against the restraints._

_When the female doctor holds out the_ _bit,_ _she opens her mouth obediently. Her eyes search for praise in the doctor’s eyes but she finds none. She closes her mouth too soon, coming very close_ _to_ _biting. The spite feels good for only a moment before she remembers that_ _she’s trying to be good._

_“Go tell Kravchenko we’re starting,” one of the doctors calls out, just as the apparatus streaming with currents come down to surround her head. She hates the way it blocks her_ _periphery_ _, because her teacher always told her how important it was to_ _have a wide angle on her surroundings._

_“All clear.”_

_“Go.”_

_The currents tear into her head and she forgets her lessons._

*** 

Pietro was the first to the docking bay when the quinjet landed, by a mile. Bucky and Wanda had only just gotten past the large doors when he came racing back, looking decidedly grimmer than he had when he buzzed off in the first place. 

“What’s wrong?” Wanda asked, reaching out to clutch at her brother’s hand. 

“Sam suffered an injury. Not serious, but he is yelling. Loudly.” 

They rushed towards the grounded jet as a group, and Bucky felt a well of anxiety in his gut. If Sam had been injured, that meant the base was occupied, which meant they had gotten information. He still didn’t think he was ready for that. 

“Wanda, Speedy!” Clint barked. He was struggling to hold up Sam, who’s legs looked like it they could barely hold his weight. There was a gray cast to his skin, and dried blood was streaked across his face. “Let’s get Wilson to Dr. Cho.” 

Bucky turned slightly to allow the twins to rush past him. Pietro ducked under Sam’s other shoulder and Wanda, fingers bleeding red light, made a gesture at him. Clint’s struggle lessened considerably, and they rushed him towards the exit without a word to Bucky. 

He jogged up the steps into the plane when no one else exited. 

Nat and Steve were sitting near the front of the jet, heads bent towards each other as Tony fiddled with something on the control panel. Bruce was still unbuckling himself, looking grim. 

“The base was still operational?” he asked. 

Bruce nodded. “Barely. They didn’t put up much of a fight, but Sam ran into an officer, and he set off a grenade.”   
Sam hadn’t looked like he’d gotten caught on the wrong side of a grenade, but Bucky assumed he’d escaped the worst of the explosion. Then the words sunk in. 

“The commander of the base? He’s dead?” 

“They’re all dead,” Tony said, turning in his chair. “We’re thorough like that.” 

“Nat’s been combing through some of the unencrypted intel,” Bruce said. 

Nat looked up at the sound of her own name, a strained frown on her face. “The intel we were going to wait to talk about.” 

The day before, Bucky might have argued, but he’d spent several hours talking to Sketch while the team was clearing out the base. He’d gained some perspective after he’d had to sit in the dark for most of the night staving off a panic attack. He was losing control of himself with all these triggers coming so close together. It wasn’t in his nature to shy away from the worst shit in his head—it couldn’t be, because all the shit in his head was the worst—but he knew what would happen if he totally lost it. Steve would pull rank and Bucky wouldn’t get to be involved at all. 

“That’s...” he tried again, because his voice had gone rough. “That’s fine by me.” 

Steve’s gaze on him was searching. “Did anything happen with her while we were gone?” 

Bucky laughed, and it was a weak, tired sound. “She didn’t kill anyone or try to escape.” 

Natasha stood slowly, rubbing a finger over the mostly healed scars on her face. “But she’s not being helpful.” 

“She did inadvertently point us in the direction of another HYDRA base,” Bruce argued. He moved across the plane to brush his shoulder against Nat’s. “We should give her credit for that.” 

“ _I’ll_ give her credit when we don’t have to worry if she killed anyone,” Tony quipped. 

Bucky held off on a sigh, backing away down the stairs as they all began to rise and head for the exit. “She has been talking to me. Telling me a little bit about her—about the conditioning. And she stopped calling me Soldat.” 

Nat offered a small shrug and a twist of her lips at that. “I guess any change is good change right now.” 

Bucky nodded. “She still hasn’t bathed though. I thought about asking but I thought it would be...” he struggled to finish the thought. It felt like a violation of her privacy to even tell them, and an even bigger violation of his own to explain just why he didn’t get around to asking. 

He remembered his own maintenance procedures—they were some of his worst dreams when they came—and he couldn’t bring himself to make her think about anything like that if she’d been put through anything like that. The HYDRA agents had always particularly enjoyed bath time. 

Bucky had to force thoughts of strange hands on his skin out of his head, giving a bracing shake of his head. 

They’d all reached a similar place when he chanced a glance at them. Nat, in particular, had a look of discomfort on her face. Bruce gave a cough and quickened his pace down the steps in order to outstrip them. Tony was close behind, although he looked more confused than anything. 

Steve’s soft distress almost made Bucky angry, but he tried to keep things in perspective. He kept things in perspective now, or else he’d go insane. More insane. 

“I’ll give you guys time to go through the information. I’m going to the gym.” 

“I can come with you,” Steve offered, but Bucky shook his head. 

“No need to rush telling me anything, by the way,” he said as he turned to leave. “I can deal with the anticipation better than the information.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky realizing that he can't do everything? Consider me proud.


	7. What's a Child?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m sorry about the dreams,” he tells her, and there is an honesty there that makes her pause. “I know it’s hard, remembering everything they did to you.” 
> 
> Words come to her, suddenly and she is speaking before she has registered them. “For who would lose, though full of pain, this intellectual being, those thoughts that wander through eternity.” There is more, but she can’t continue, swallowing thickly around bad thoughts, around disobedience. Her malfunction is only worsening. 
> 
> Those are not words she should be sharing. She thinks about the chair again, about the tub, and a small part of her wants to die. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the most explicit reference to non-con so far. Nothing graphic, and I think it's kind of important to know.  
> It starts at "She remembers the tub most of all" and ends a few lines later, just skip to "At the very least". Very brief allusion.  
> It's basically about the failure of the man who raised her to adequately respond to an assault.

She was doing pushups when he came in for the second time in as many days. She barely looked up, getting more and more comfortable with his presence as time crept on. 

Her arms shook with the effort to push her weight up, her body straining after almost two hours of strenuous exercise. After waking up from another dream, it had been the only thing to calm her down, but as he tugged his chair into the room, she pushed herself up fully and sat against her heels, close enough to reach out and touch his leg. The position felt...familiar. 

Sketch didn’t like it, and after a horrible moment of anxiety, she shot up to her feet, taking a step back and rubbing at her arms. “You should start knocking,” she told him. Her voice felt rough in her throat. The nightly screaming was not helpful for proper diction. 

His face, which had been twisted in an uncomfortable but genuine smile, darkened immediately. “I’m sorry. I will.” 

She nodded. “Good.” 

“Did you have another dream?” he asked. 

She only grunted. 

When he didn’t press her for more information, she started stretching to loosen sore muscles. Sketch touched her toes and spun her arms in a tight circle. He watched it all with a measure of patience. If she was back at base after a training session of that duration, she’d be ordered to conduct personal maintenance, but once again, the thought of subjecting herself to water turns her stomach. Kravchenko had liked to test her breath capacity and her visits to the tub were frequent, even after she was introduced to the chair. The memories had begun to feature frequently in her nightmares for the last few days. For some reason, they are worse than the ones she has about the chair. 

“I’m sorry about the dreams,” he tells her, and there is an honesty there that makes her pause. “I know it’s hard, remembering everything they did to you.” 

Words come to her, suddenly and she is speaking before she has registered them. “For who would lose, though full of pain, this intellectual being, those thoughts that wander through eternity.” There is more, but she can’t continue, swallowing thickly around bad thoughts, around disobedience. Her malfunction is only worsening. 

Those are not words she should be sharing. She thinks about the chair again, about the tub, and a small part of her wants to die. 

He is surprised, and he leans forward in his chair. “What is that?” 

“I don’t know.” She is lying, because she has to lie. 

But he can see more than she is telling. His gaze meets her. 

The eyes...she always gets those wrong. 

*** 

“What’s that from?” Steve asked. 

He and Nat had argued with Bucky for an hour over whether they should observe his meeting with the girl, but they’d finally convinced them it would be best—even if she’d settled down, the longer this went on the more unstable she’d get. 

Nat was sitting cross-legged in the wheeled chair in front of the monitor, and with a quick series of keystrokes she’d transcribed the quote into a search engine. She chuckled. “It’s Milton. She’s quoting Paradise Lost.” 

“Why?” Steve looked baffled. “They trained Bucky like a...like a dog. They wanted a mindless weapon. Classics lessons don’t seem to mesh with that.” 

“What I got from the notes was conflicting,” Nat said. “The higher-ups asked for another Winter Soldier—but one with even more abilities. I think they were angry about her being a girl, but everything I’ve read tells me they expected a carbon copy of Bucky.” 

“But?” Steve pressed. There was an ever-present nausea he couldn’t shake. Each revelation about Bucky and the girl only made it worse. HYDRA were sick scum, and he’d thought he knew the extent of their depravity, but with each file Nat decrypted, it only got worse. 

They’d gotten a detailed description of how the shock treatments worked last night, and he’d been forced to ask her to stop talking. He couldn’t imagine how _she_ was dealing with it, because she didn’t have the courtesy of being able to stop if the information hurt her feelings. 

“Her handler— the Ukranian named Kravchenko you killed—had other ideas,” she sighed. “I’ve only got the earlier notes right now. They span from age six to twelve and can’t find anything earlier than that right now. He wanted to make her _better_ than the Winter Soldier, apparently.” 

He glanced back at the monitor. The girl was perched on the bed, her face drawn and wan, arms wrapped around her middle. She still looked filthy, but Steve shrunk away from that because memories of Bucky’s faced when he’d mentioned it days ago made him crushingly sad and angry. Bucky was leaning his elbows against his knees, lips moving slowly as he spoke—they'd turned the audio off at his request—and he wasn’t looking at her. 

“How did he want to achieve that?” 

Nat looked uncomfortable, and she averted her eyes from both the screen and Steve himself. Her eyes stuck to the featureless metal wall. “He built a bond with her—mostly positive reinforcement when she was younger. His notes refer to her as “his good girl”. Her training was mostly about pain endurance at first, but he made the decision to not be directly involved in its infliction until she’d learned to trust him.” 

Steve took a stuttering step towards one of the other chairs and sat down heavily. He ran a hand over his face and tried to calm himself before he started crying. “Alright. Okay.” 

“Do you want me to stop?” she asked, voice soft. He didn’t answer right away, pressing fingers into his eyes to stem the tears. 

“Anything from the higher-ups on that?” he finally asked. 

“They were indifferent at first, because the results were satisfactory. But apparently there was an incident when she was eleven. Kravchenko—sick bastard—alludes to some sort of issue with a low-ranked agent, _inappropriate_ _contact_. She killed the agent and didn’t react well to her punishment. That’s when Pierce got involved.” 

“Is any of this dated?” he asked, because he couldn’t handle the rest of it right now, couldn’t ask what Nat thought ‘inappropriate contact’ might be. “if we know when all of this was happening, maybe... We need to figure out where they _took_ her from, Nat.” 

“Everything jumps around a lot. I get the sense Kravchenko was young when they brought her in, but he had to be pushing 70 when we got there. If I had to guess, they brought her on and off ice for a few years, and then ratcheted up the training once Pierce got wind of her.” 

He sat back, working his jaw in frustration. “We don’t have a birth year? Or something we can use?” 

“Steve, I don’t think it’s going to be that easy. Even if we find out exactly who she really belongs to, and they’re not long dead or complicit, she’s not going to just get better.” 

“I know that,” he snapped. 

Nat spun her chair and met his eyes directly. She looked determined, and her next words were harsh, but he couldn’t help but think they were fair. “She’s not Bucky, Steve. Bucky’s here, and he’s getting better. I’m not saying we shouldn’t do everything we can for this girl, but you can’t get your hopes up.” 

“I know,” he said, softer this time. 

But he didn’t know if he really did. 

*** 

_Kravchenko is reading to her. She had just gotten out of the_ _chair,_ _her throat_ _is_ _still raw from screaming_ _. But she remembers_ _him and_ _is grateful. The tears are the result of the pain, but they are also happy tears. She smiles at him._

_The doctor beside her flinches, and she does not understand until she becomes aware of the taste of rust in her mouth._ _There is blood on her teeth, and she thinks it is from_ before _._   
_“How the fuck did she do that?” one of the agents whispers, but she ignores him. Her eyes are trained on Kravchenko, who does not glance up from the book._

_She does not know it, but something about it is familiar. There is a screaming man on the cover, and he is wreathed in flames. It touches something in her chest, and she wonders if the look of pain on his face_ _is something_ _she’s ever displayed._

_She wants to ask her teacher if she’s ever looked like that, but then he’d stop reading to her, and his words are better than knowing. They reach into her head and scrape out all the bad things. It is painful, but it is necessary. Her lips move as she begins following along._

_When he is finished, her head is empty of fear or pain, and she smiles again, even though she can feel bloody and drool slipping past her lips._

_Kravchenko finally raises his eyes to hers, but he does not smile. He looks grim._

_“Hello,_ malen'kyy soldat _,” he says._

_“Hello,_ vchytel _,” she croaks._

She should be mourning. A normal girl would mourn this death. But Sketch felt numb after Bucky left. It is strange, this numbness that spread through her body only moments after she beat her sore fists into his hard chest. He'd resisted little, only snaking his hands out to stop her once she’d started crying. And then he’d left her to her own grief. 

And now she wasn’t feeling any at all. 

Of course, this might be proof that her malfunctioning was not unmanageable because a tool for HYDRA was not meant to feel grief, but there was an uneasiness to it all that told her she was not simply performing well. She was misbehaving in some way but couldn’t pinpoint _how_ exactly. 

Her thoughts, when she managed to have them, chafed against her training and ordinary procedures—they were rebellious in nature, and she kept recalling some of her worst lessons. 

She remembers the tub most of all, because her skin and scalp had begun to itch terribly and she felt sticky and stiff with old sweat. Her hair had started to mat a little in the back, where finger combing had failed. 

But she also remembers standing before Kravchenko’s desk, thighs dark with blood and face a mass of bruises, as one of her guards explained that they’d found her tearing out another one’s throat. It had been justified, she remembered, but she also remembered that it had been disobedient and wrong. The conflicting facts made her head hurt. 

At the very least, it was easy to admit that she didn’t need to mourn her doctors or the handlers. She didn’t need to cry for guards or trainers. But Lentner had been her commander, to who she owed her loyalty. And Kravchenko... 

She wanted to ask Bucky about these feelings, but every time she pictured his face or thought about him coming to see her, she was filled with a deep and dark rage, and it made her punch things. He was supposed to understand—she'd at least made this concession by now, that they were in the same situation—but instead of doing that, he’d dragged her further into confusion and fear. 

There would be no extraction now. She’d been set adrift and she had no way of getting back to shore. And all of it was his fault. It made her want to take his name away. Sketch wanted to look him in the eyes and tell him he was nothing again so his face would crumple up. The thought of making him cry sent an inescapable thrill through her body. 

But if she did that, he would take her name as well, and if she couldn’t return to normal procedures if she could not return to her teacher and submit to punishment and training, she needed to keep her name. 

If she could not be nothing, she would need to remain Sketch. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> +vchytelʹ (teacher)


	8. I Can Be Useful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She smelled awful. Of course, they wouldn’t care for that. And while Sketch hated the idea of water on her skin, she reminded herself that it was best to be useful to them. She sighed and struggled out of her awkward position on the bed. 
> 
> With quick movement, she began to draw her shirt over her head. Bucky’s hands shot out and stopped her, yanking the hem back down with a rough movement of his metal arm. 
> 
> “Not now,” he ordered, and she stopped. “You can have privacy. And you shouldn’t--” he drew breath. 
> 
> “I’m sorry,” she said, but he only leveled her a look. 
> 
> “You don’t have to do that anymore. Apologize or...” he trailed off. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More warning for past non-con. Also more allusions to bad hygiene. Idk if that bothers anyone, but I know it usually bothers me. It's not described in any great detail, just referenced.

“I think she could benefit from therapy,” Dr. Cho said. She’d joined them in the observation room for the first time, and Steve was surprised at how quickly she reached that decision. Bucky had only just entered the room, offering the girl— _Sketch_ , Bucky had told them he called her _Sketch_ now—a relatively easy smile. 

Sketch didn’t look nearly as happy to see him. 

Telling her about their trip to the base had been a mistake. This was Bucky’s first time back that hadn’t ended with violence on her part, and Steve couldn’t trust his best friend not to let her wail on him until she was done. Even his advanced healing hadn’t cleared up the bruise that stained his eye from yesterday’s visit. 

“Would it be safe to put a civilian in there with her?” Nat asked the doctor. 

Sketch was pacing in front of the bathroom door, and though the audio was still turned off, Steve could read her lips, and it was clear she's just told Bucky to fuck off. 

“Remote sessions wouldn’t be ideal, but I think they’d be better than nothing. And isolation isn’t good for her in this state,” Dr. Cho told them. She leaned forward, eyes tracking the tight expression on Sketch’s face. 

“Bucky’s been visiting her every day,” Steve said, feeling defensive. 

Dr. Cho sighed, but her expression was sympathetic. “None of this is ideal, but I doubt Mr. Barnes is equipped to deal with someone suffering through deeply traumatic memories. His own recovery is still ongoing.” 

Steve grunted in agreement at that. Bucky had been worse off in the past few weeks than he’d been in quite a while. There’d been a slow but steady trend towards improvement that had stopped dead in its tracks as soon as they brought her in. 

Nat leaned forward, catching the doctor’s eye. “What should we do about the...bathing issue?” Her mouth twisted slightly, but she didn’t add anything more. 

Dr. Cho frowned, eyes flicking back to Sketch. “If she’s been given free access to the bathroom and has ample free time to clean herself, but she still hasn’t...” She shook her head. “It’s probably a manifestation of trauma; she’s avoiding a trigger. But it’s unhealthy. I hate to suggest it, but she might have to be convinced or ordered to do it.” 

“We can’t do that,” Steve protested. 

“I’m not saying we hose her down,” she said. “But if Mr. Barnes can ask her to, that would be amazing. I promise it’s for her own good. There are several medical complications that can arise from long periods without bathing.” 

Nat stared Steve down, clearly in agreement with the doctor. Steve wanted to push back, but everything Dr. Cho had said was true, and she knew better than anyone if it was worth the risk. 

“I’ll...talk to Bucky, tell him it’s an issue,” Steve said. “And we can plan out how we’re going to approach her about therapy.” 

*** 

Her mood had been shifting rapidly since he’d given her the news, almost two weeks of confusion and instability. Some days she seemed calm and collected, and she’d even let Bruce come in to ask her questions about her abilities—she hadn’t answered, but she hadn’t reacted violently either. Other days, she’d turn away even Bucky, the only one she felt nominally comfortable with. 

Her hands, once so steady, shook as she exercised each day. Her head ached more than it didn’t and sleeping was mostly impossible. Even when she did manage to settle the panic she got when the lights went out, she would be awoken by nightmares. Bucky had told her she could request things to do, leisure activities, but the idea had confused, so he dropped it. She still wasn’t sure what he’d been offering. Leisure was...unknown, but she had a feeling it might have kept her occupied. Still, it felt wrong to request it now, so she stuck to vigorous exercise. It wasn’t helping. 

Sketch had reached a breaking point, and sometimes she didn’t even realize it. 

It’s why she was so grateful to see him. Their last meeting had been short—she'd shouted and he’d left before she could start hitting him too hard—so when he entered, she made her mood clear. 

“Hello, Bucky,” she greeted him, offering a tenuous smile. He responded with one of his own. Sketch was happy to see that the bruise she gave him was completely gone, and she shifted towards the bed to sit across from him as he settled into the chair. 

“Hey Sketch,” he replied. His posture was relaxed, as was her own. 

She twisted her fingers together, unsure how to start, but he remained blessedly silent. He was letting her get her thoughts in order. 

“I have been thinking,” she finally said. But then her words were gone. Nothing more could be managed, and she shrugged helplessly at his probing look. 

“About the dreams? Or about what you want?” he was patient with his questions, and she got the sense he wasn’t hung up on whether she answered them well or not. 

It should be frustrating, not to be given direct or explicit orders anymore, but Sketch was grateful for it. 

“My handler is dead. HYDRA is...” she shook her head. “I am without a mission now, as my commanding officer has been killed. This is distressing.” 

It was easier to be blunt and professional. She knew Bucky didn’t like when she spoke like this, that it hurt him, but there is still a part of her that does not shrink away from causing him distress. It only felt fair. 

“I understand.” And he must. The Captain ruined him, and had every intention—Sketch knew it had to be true—of doing the same sort of thing to her. 

If she was the same thing, she’d been weeks ago when she’d been captured initially, this would be frightening. Even before learning that Kravchenko was dead, it would have chafed. But he _is_ dead. And she remembered more now. 

She remembered why she’d killed that agent, why the blood had run down her thighs in thick red lines. And it made her angry, it made her sad. Because he had been angry then, a little, and he hadn’t punished her very hard for the agent’s death, but the next time— 

If Kravchenko was dead and could no longer enforce his rules, and if the Captain could not be dissuaded from ruining her original programming, she knew she’d need to submit. A new purpose would be preferable to sitting in this room to rot. 

“I’ll submit to new protocol,” she told him. Her decision had already been made, but the last-minute debate only affirmed it. “You allowed the Captain to remake you. I’ll do this as well.” 

Bucky wasn’t as happy as she’d thought he might be. He struggled to speak for quite a while, blinking stupidly at her, jaw tense and lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, Sketch was afraid she’d misread the situation. 

She ducked her head, hiding behind her hair. “I’ve made a mistake,” she said, voice edging with panic. “He doesn’t need my permission. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, that was stupid. Of course, it doesn’t matter if I--” 

“Sketch, stop,” Bucky was there his flesh hand on her shoulder, and light touch she didn’t flinch from. “Stop, I’m not mad. And Steve’s not mad either.” 

Sketch didn’t look up, still unsteady with fear, but she stopped, leaned into his touch. 

Bucky sounded very tired when he spoke again. “I know you need this to be a new protocol. It’s easier to understand—easier to agree if it’s a new mission. I’m...I’m sorry I didn’t realize quicker. You want explicit orders.” 

She finally looked up, offering another weak smile. He was assuming too much, giving her too much credit, but she let that go. It was better if he believed that anyway. 

“Does that mean I--” 

But she had no frame of reference for that it meant. She knew Kravchenko’s lessons, knew what was expected from her by HYDRA. She knew little of what the Captain would need from her. Different things, presumably, but how different? Bucky still fought for the Captain; he was still a weapon. But what about the rest of it? What about the words and the—what about the things Kravchenko let the agents take from her? 

Would this be expected? She _wanted_ to want different, to want better, but it was outside of her capabilities. 

“It means things will change,” he told her firmly. “We’re going to start bringing someone to talk to you. And you might be allowed to leave the room when you’re better.” 

Both of these things sounded fine, so she nodded. 

“And it means you need to start talking to other people. Steve and Nat want to ask you questions about HYDRA. Can you answer them?” 

She wasn’t sure, and it was frightening to lie, but she did anyway. Even if she couldn’t, she would try because the Captain had to find her useful. Sketch didn’t want to be decommissioned or left without purpose. She nodded again. 

“That’s good,” Bucky told her. 

“If Dr. Banner wants to do more tests, that’s fine too,” she volunteered. It sounded overeager, and for a moment she was afraid she’d overstepped, but Bucky didn’t protest. He made a tight sound in his throat, but nodded. 

“And there’s something else,” he said. 

Her heart raced. There—it was there. But she couldn’t be angry, couldn’t feel resentful. She’d _asked_ for this. And it was better to be told, to have it explained exactly what they needed her to do. Kravchenko had always shied away from details when it came to this, always seemed vaguely displeased about it. 

“I need you to take a shower,” he said, finally. Her fear didn’t lessen, didn’t change, but she gave a quick nod. 

She smelled awful. Of course, they wouldn’t care for that. And while Sketch hated the idea of water on her skin, she reminded herself that it was best to be useful to them. She sighed and struggled out of her awkward position on the bed. 

With quick movement, she began to draw her shirt over her head. Bucky’s hands shot out and stopped her, yanking the hem back down with a rough movement of his metal arm. 

“Not now,” he ordered, and she stopped. “You can have privacy. And you shouldn’t--” he drew breath. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, but he only leveled her a look. 

“You don’t have to do that anymore. Apologize or...” he trailed off. 

But the words were vague. She couldn’t get her hopes up. Carefully, she withdrew her hands from where he still clasped them. His touch fell away instantly. “Don’t have to do _what_?” she pressed. She needed firmer intel on this. 

“I know you want explicit orders,” he said, for the second time. He looked pained. “I just need a minute.” 

Sketch blinked. 

She should have realized he’d had similar duties. Maybe the imposing height and weight of him had made it seem unlikely, but it made sense. _It_ wasn’t all about the actual act; much of it was actually about teaching her that she was nothing. And he’d been nothing like her. 

Bucky seemed to be bracing himself, preparing to give her some reassurance. Once again, she tried to remain patient, even though all of her was on edge, waiting to be relieved or to be resigned. 

“No one is going to ask you to... God damnit, this is fucking _awful_ ,” he breathed. “Now I know how Steve feels.” 

“I’m sorry,” she told him, even though she knew he didn’t want her to. 

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m sorry I’m not being fast enough. This is hard for me. But Sketch—no one is going to make you take your clothes off. No one is going to touch you like that. It’s not part of your new protocols. Do you understand?” 

It was all a lot. She wanted to tell him she did. It was partially true, on some level, that she got what he was alluding to, but like he said, she needed him to be explicit with her about this. 

Sketch shook her head. “I’m sorry, Bucky. More information, please.” 

There was a moment, just a single second when he feared he would stop. She feared he would tell her this was all a joke and that of course she needed to give the Captain whatever he wanted. And then— 

“You don’t have to have sex with anyone, Sketch.” 

His words were rough and uneven, and when he finished, he collapsed back a bit to sit on her mattress. Hunched in on himself, he hid behind is own hair, and the connection she felt to that posture was sudden and stark. She sat beside him and drew an arm over his shoulders. 

“Thank you,” she breathed. “I...I want to believe you. And you know that I will try to.” 

It seemed to cause him more pain, but he gave an affirmative grunt. He understood that she would never be convinced, not until given more evidence, not until she felt safe and no one made the order for long enough. It felt good to be understood. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t realize,” she murmured. “It should have been obvious. They based my training off of yours.” 

The sound of distress he gave made her regret those words, and the way he shrugged her arm off stung, but Sketch sat back, pushing with her feet until she was sitting against the headboard. She didn’t say a word when he left. 

*** 

Dr. Banner came in to see her as she was tucking into the food delivered by one of her guards, only hours after her meeting with Bucky—she believed that was a good sign. Her meals had begun to increase in quality, but while she’d complained to the Captain early on, Sketch knew she didn’t actually deserve good food. Today she’d been given a sandwich laden with fillings, a glossy apple, and a plastic cup full of juice. It felt wrong, but she knew they would only be more upset if she refused to eat. 

He looked uncomfortable, perhaps not intending to interrupt her with his visit, but Sketch only nodded in acknowledgment when he greeted her. 

“Barnes told me you were open to talking to me?” he asked, voice unsure. She nodded once again, not willing to talk around her mouthful of sandwich. “I really appreciate that.” 

Sketch swallowed, throat feeling narrow for just a moment. She still hadn’t showered, and part of her had expected them to wait until she’d done so before giving her visitors to deal with. Or perhaps approach her with more caution, after Bucky had assuredly revealed the topic of their last conversation. Perhaps they were trying to be casual about this? 

She didn’t like the idea of being around a scientist. As more memories flooded back, she got the distinct feeling that the worst of them stemmed from moments surrounded by men and women in lab coats, eyes gleaming with a heady mixture of disgust and scientific interest. Banner had looked at her like this, she remembered. But he was looking at her now like she was a person—and Bucky said she _was_ a person, so that was a good sign. 

“I will answer questions,” she told him. “And I...” 

He shifted on his feet—he hadn’t brought a chair in like Bucky had, so he was just standing before the door, twitching like his skin didn’t fit right. 

She shook her head. “I am sorry about the smell,” she said finally. It felt like a necessary thing to say. Bucky had made a request, and she had failed to comply as of yet. This was bad. “I will... I am attempting to _work up to it_ _._ ” 

Banner gave a dismissive gesture, but he looked a lot less than dismissive of her words. “Please, don’t apologize.” 

She nodded—this was an order she would need to follow, as it had been issued by two separate people. Of course, she could not assume Banner would be a direct superior to her, but it felt safer than disregarding his words. Sketch had been expected to follow the orders of HYDRA’s scientists, after all. 

“We can take it slow,” Banner offered. “If I ask a question you don’t like, just tell me, and we can move on.” 

Sketch shrugged. He took it as an agreement and seemed to relax just a touch. 

“Would you like me to tell you everything I am aware of about my capabilities?” she suggested instead. “It would be more efficient.” 

There was a hesitancy on his face. “I don’t know if that’s fair. You shouldn’t have to tell me _everything_.” 

These people were very confusing. There was so much emphasis on... _preferences_. Their orders were framed like questions, and they seemed to want her to share her thoughts on matters frequently. She wondered how Bucky dealt with it, with the constant uncertainty of it all. But then, even he sometimes slipped into the same speech patterns, asking her for an opinion instead of expecting compliance. 

She longed for order and discipline. A scientist should not worry about their subject's views on things, should not care about comfort or consent. That wasn’t how the world worked. She felt a spike of resentment she tried to shove down, but it must have shown on her face, because Banner drew himself up once again, sidling even closer towards the door. 

“Th-that’s fine,” he told her quickly. “If you want to be more efficient, that’s fine.” 

A quick nod, and Sketch stood. It was better to give a description of her capabilities at attention. It felt familiar. She fell into parade rest, her eyes skating around the edges of Banner but never resting, as she began. 

“I am capable of the manipulation of surrounding electrical energy, limited to a 200-foot radius. I’m also capable of a measure of precision, with a minimum of five feet surrounding my body. I have control of the effects of a blast; if I was ordered, it would be possible to perform a specific task, like only cutting off power to certain functions in a system or devices in a room.” 

There was interest warring with discomfort on Dr. Banner’s face, but Sketch couldn’t stop now that she’d started. She remained in position, still as a statue. 

“My powers are strongest in a room or space filled with electronics, and I have had no experience with controlling more natural sources of electrical energy. I am entirely limited entirely to electric energy, as my handlers were unable to broaden my control to magnetic or thermal energy.” 

Banner started at that. “Did they try to, uh, _broaden your control_ through practice? Or was it...was it an experiment?” 

“Practice only. The commander was unsure if experimentation would cause damage to my already existing abilities or to me and didn’t want to take the risk.” 

“Ok. Uh... _Sketch_ , would you mind giving me a demonstration?” 

She blinked, slouching a little in her posture. She’d taken on a professional tone Banner obviously disliked, and it was only his _request_ that made her realize this, along with the use of her name. He was... _asking_. But again, there was little choice. If Banner decided she was useful, the Captain would be more likely to keep her around. _This is important_ , she told herself once again. Besides, manipulating the currents was as easy as breathing, and he’d observed it before. There would be little risk. 

Without confirmation or denial, Sketch’s mind stretched for a moment. She found the currents quickly, twisting at them until the lights began to dim. It would be adequate for a simple demonstration. For more, he’d need to arrange a different situation, in a more secure room. She shut them off with another twist and turned them back on. She kept at it, in a recognizable and distinct pattern, so he would not assume she was simply making them flicker. The Morse code was a simple greeting, and she was unaware if he would recognize it. 

He let out a soft breath, obviously impressed, so she stopped. With the lights fully on, she let her eyes rest more firmly on his face, and she found he was looking at her similarly to the scientists from HYDRA. She forced herself not to react to this, but the pit of anxiety in her gut only grew. 

He blinked at her in amazement. “You have extraordinary control. The mutants we’re aware of, the small studies they’ve been doing—there's nothing like it. That was amazing, Sketch.” 

Her name, again. It was odd having someone other than herself or Bucky say it, and she was unsure at the moment if she liked it. 

“Thank you,” she replied. It was what one said to a compliment. 

“I, uh, I’m going to leave now. I just—there's a lot about that I want to write down, and I have to start thinking about--” He was already reaching for the door, seemingly seized by dozens of possibilities. 

“Dr. Banner,” she called out before he could leave. It felt odd, when he turned around with expectant eyes. Such blatant disregard for authority should result in punishment. But she couldn’t deal with that right now. “Dr. Banner, could you tell Captain Rogers—That is, could you deliver a request to Captain Rogers? I’d like to speak with him.” 

He smiled, perhaps too brightly. “Sure thing.” 

Sketch didn’t fall out of position until the door closed behind the doctor. 


	9. I am a little world made cunningly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wasn’t okay. 
> 
> He was not okay. 
> 
> In fact, he was awful, and he wanted to get a knife so he could peel all the skin off his body or made pluck his fingernails off one by one or break some of his own fingers. Because if he could focus on real, solid physical pain, he could ignore the...doubts. 
> 
> He looked at Sketch, who had a name now, who seemed like a person—and he doubted. He doubted her, he doubted himself—worst, though, was that he doubted Steve. Because he hadn’t been like that, hadn’t been a real person, not for several months—but Sketch had an identity and everything. Sure, her identity mostly seemed to consist of having a few strong opinions about the quality of food she didn’t deserve and a deep and violent hatred of water, but it was more than he’d been capable after Steve found him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for the usual stuff.

“Buck, are you okay in there?” Steve sounded unsure of himself through the door, but Bucky was having a hard time feeling sympathy. 

He’d been in his room, in the dark, for hours. It had taken everything he had to text Banner about Sketch’s agreement to questions, and now he was just scrambling to get himself under control. He couldn’t see anyone else. Everything felt too close, too oppressively _fine_. And for some reason, the last person he wanted to see was Steve. 

He knew it wasn’t fair to blame him. Steve was a good man; he would never dream of-- 

And he didn’t even know about what had happened. As they got more and more comfortable with Sketch’s presence in the compound, Bucky requested more and more privacy for her. The cameras were left on, but the footage was only looked over by Friday and stored. He’d practically barred anyone from going into the monitoring room. 

Part of him was worried that Natasha might renege on that if Steve ran off and told her Bucky was being _weird_. And then they’d want an explanation—something he was sure he was incapable of right now. 

He wasn’t okay. 

He was not okay. 

In fact, he was awful, and he wanted to get a knife so he could peel all the skin off his body or made pluck his fingernails off one by one or break some of his own fingers. Because if he could focus on real, solid physical pain, he could ignore the...doubts. 

He looked at Sketch, who had a name now, who seemed like a person—and he doubted. He doubted her, he doubted himself—worst, though, was that he doubted Steve. Because he hadn’t been like that, hadn’t been a real person, not for several months—but Sketch had an identity and everything. Sure, her identity mostly seemed to consist of having a few strong opinions about the quality of food she didn’t _deserve_ and a deep and violent hatred of water, but it was more than he’d been capable after Steve found him. 

So who was playing a trick now? What was the catch? Was Sketch playing them all, luring them into a sense of security, planting the tip-off about Ukraine to protect her real handlers? And he hated himself for that thought, hated himself so strongly that he was comforted that at least something was steady and familiar, even if it was his “really worrying” self-hatred—Sam's words, not his. The alternative to Sketch playing them all, however, was that it was Bucky. 

Bucky—the Soldier, the Asset, James, whatever the _fuck_ he was—was nominally sure he was himself, that he was a person with thoughts and opinions and too many emotions at once, but he wasn’t altogether sure which person he was. It changed, sometimes. Steve was around more than he wasn’t, and Bucky found it easy to slip into their old patterns. But if Steve wasn’t around to—to mirror, he realized—he'd let memories from the Red Room wash over him and settle into biting arguments with Natasha in Russian. He had a person for each of them. Was that any less of a trick than Sketch’s--if she was lying, which he couldn’t _know_. 

He had no doubt Natasha _knew_. She’d gone through every single file on the Winter Soldier and HYDRA’s Asset personally, and nothing escaped her notice. But there was a difference between reading dusty old files and him having to tell his friends about any of his doubts. If Natasha made the leap, if she started to seriously question any of his or Sketch’s motives, that was all fine. He liked that, even. It made him feel less terrified that he’d be ruining Steve’s life if he slipped up. But if Bucky was ratting them both out to the Avengers, that was a betrayal. And also, a bad way to get through Steve’s thick head. That punk was too stubborn for any of their own goods, and he seemed to listen to Bucky less and less. 

As the days went by, as Bucky analyzed Sketch for signs that she was improving, he felt the beginnings of an immeasurable rage settled in his bones. It was the indecision, the confusion, sure, but mostly it was something else. 

It was odd; all of the things he’d felt after he got enough of his head together to have feelings were overwhelming and terrifying and intense, but they hadn’t really included anger. He’d been depressed, ashamed, confused—hell he'd even been resentful of Steve and the rest of his friends for helping him get better—but he’d never been truly angry. He knew he had a lot to be angry about, and he knew exactly who to aim that fury at, but it had always felt useless. HYDRA was a shadow of itself at this point, and he had already wiped the Earth of so much of it, so what was the point? 

Maybe he’d just needed someone to be angry _for_. Because he was. He was furious on Sketch’s behalf, glad to hear that Steve had killed her handler, sorry she hadn’t been able to do the job for herself. Every little thing he’d lost seemed magnified when he realized that Sketch might have lost even more. 

He knew that when he spewed all of this to his therapist, she might try to tell him that anger wasn’t exactly a health response, but he didn’t care. It felt good. It felt righteous and fair to be angry for Sketch. He wanted to lean into it, use it to actually help her. 

But he’d probably have to get out of bed to do that, wouldn’t he? 

Before Steve could knock on his door again and plead with him in that soft voice, Bucky was dragging himself off the bed and yanking the door open. 

His friend stepped back, seemingly taken back by the glare on his face. Bucky wondered if he saw the Winter Soldier there for a second. But Steve seemed to recognize something in his eyes, something that was inherently Bucky, because he relaxed a fraction. 

“How far has Stark gotten into finding a specialist for Sketch?” he asked, trying to keep the worst of his anger out of his voice. He didn’t want Steve to think he was lashing out or being impatient. 

He was just trying to help her. 

After a momentary pause, Steve seemed to get a handle on the situation. “Oh, yeah. Tony’s working on it, but he’d narrowed it down to two people. We’re asking Dr. Cho to make the final call. Why, did you want to be involved?” 

“Yeah. Cho said having the same therapist it would be a bad idea, but I think she should get someone similar to Dr. Avery.” Bucky told him. “And I wanted to talk to you about moving her.” 

“Moving her? To a residential room?” he sounded unsure, and Bucky tried not to hold it against him. 

“Steve, when I first came back you tried to get me to stay in your apartment,” he pointed out. “The least we can do is give her a room that locks from the inside.” 

“That’s...fair.” 

Bucky let himself relax a little. He had to remember that not everyone was viewing this from his unique perspective. He couldn’t ask for too much too fast. Managing expectations was important. 

“Just, consider it. We should get her out of that room.” Bucky said. He was gentler this time. “Like Dr. Cho said, isolation isn’t good for this sort of thing.” 

“Wish you’d figured that earlier,” Steve muttered. And then his face twists, guilt and shame making him flush. 

Bucky lays his flesh hand on his shoulder, unwilling and unable to listen to Steve apologize to him again. He’s gotten enough apologies for a lifetime. 

It felt sort of perverse, the way that Steve seemed to blame himself for everything that had happened to him, for 70 years of...of hell. But when Bucky professed his own guilt, he was adamant that blame couldn’t be put at anyone’s feet but HYDRA. It was easier to look at failure or mistake objectively, probably. Guilt was a heady drug—Dr. Avery had told him it had the capacity to be incredibly selfish, which had felt like both a harsh correction as well as a revelation—and while Steve was getting incredibly good at hiding it, everything that was happening with Sketch was putting them both in unknown waters. 

Bucky’s own—still in progress—recovery was so wrapped up in their relationship. Everything came back to the scraps of understanding, of a shared history, the only dreams Bucky clung to with all his might. Sweaty nights in the New York summer, the pair of them bent over sketchbooks they’d saved money and skimped on groceries to buy; indistinct flashes of blonde hair and eyes so blue it made his cheeks ache from smiling in a little boys face, looking down to see his own childish knees covered in scrapes; Sarah, kind and brilliant Sarah, scolding them for something he couldn’t grasp at. All of that weighed on his shoulders, bittersweet as it was, when he was rebuilding himself, scrambling to find new pieces to cover just how much he was missing. They’d been too deeply involved in getting him _better_ , that they probably hadn’t paid close enough attention to the actual process. 

Fuck, but they weren’t shrinks. Bucky knew he needed help if he was going to get this girl to claw her way out of HYDRAs pit of shit. 

*** 

_“More!” the order_ _is_ _barked from across a large room, and the voice ech_ _oes_ _enough to distort it._

_She cannot_ _be sure if it_ _is_ _Kravchenko or someone else. It should not matter, she knows_ _, but it does_ _. That_ _is_ _a disobedient thought, and she squashes_ _it quickly, but the fear of being found out is_ _messing with her concentration._

_For a moment—just a moment—her control breaks_ _. A stray bolt jut_ _s_ _away from her body, dancing along the edge of the metal cage_ _she is_ _in. It skitters_ _across metal, and she hears_ _the distinct sizzle of human_ _flesh followed by a scream. Instantly, she stops_ _, the energy recoiling slightly at the_ _suddenness_ _of her pull. It flashes across her skin and she bit_ _es_ _down on a scream._ _Her body is_ _seized_ _by now unruly electricity, and as she drops, she sees a figurer rushing forward._

_Her muscles jerk for only a minute and she feels no burning along her skin, but as soon as her eyes blink open, Kravchenko’s face is hovering above hers. He is angry, and there are voices snapping tersely behind him._

_“T_ _his_ _is your weapon?” someone scoffs in_ _English_ _. Sketch flinches from it. The Americans scare her; they’re tests are always the hardest, and they set Kravchenko on edge. He punishes her more when_ _they are here._

_“Can your Asset do_ _that_ _?”_ _Lentner_ _asked_ _mulishly_ _. Another scoff._

_“No, but it doesn’t attack its handlers.”_

_It holds the distinct note of a boastful lie, but Sketch is in no position to say anything. Her teeth are still clenched together, even though the electricity has left her body. And Kravchenko is reaching out, a hand in her hair._

_He tugs roughly, pulling her to standing._

_She attempts to._

_She fails._

_He seems_ _infuriated_ _by this, and only tugs her hair harder. Finally, after a few terrifying, scrambling moments, she is able to get her legs steady_ _beneath her._ _Her muscles still clench and unclench rhythmically, and Sketch knows she will feel sick for the rest of the day._

_But_ _then he is hitting her, an open-palmed slap across her mouth which sends_ _her sprawling_ _,_ _in her delicate position._ _She lets only a grunt of pain out in response._ _If she cried out in front of the Americans, this punishment would be worse._

_“How old is it?” another American voice asks. The question isn’t for her, so she doesn’t answer, only scrambles to her feet and waits for more blows._

_Lentner_ _lets out a laugh. Perhaps her age is_ _irrelevant_ _? “Why do you ask?”_

_“It’s obviously_ _young_ _,” the voice says_ _, suddenly defensive._

_Kravchenko slaps her again, and she falls because it is part of the lesson. Normally a blow this week would be negligible, but as he gets older and his strength_ _lessens,_ _she knows he does not react well to_ _her ability to withstand him. Still, she feels the trickle of blood running down the side of her mouth._

_“It is older than it looks,” Kravchenko growls. “We collected it in 1980_ _.”_

_He does not like that he must call her it in front of the Americans—he has told her this—so the word feels dirty as it leaves his mouth._

_“Seems like a waste to keep it on ice if it’s taking so long to grow,” the first American points out._

_Lentner_ _sounds irritated when he replies. “The Asset’s researchers sent their notes. Cryostasis is mandatory to maintain compliance.”_

_She struggles up once again, weaving slightly on her feet. Kravchenko is staring at the Americans, mouth pursed tightly, and his_ _fists hang heavy at his side. There is more gray in his hair, and she is suddenly looking at a strange old man, and not her teacher. Sketch’s lungs feel tight._

_“No longer necessary. Just get the thing functional and ready for actual use,” the American is angry now. “If you can’t get it to_ _a useful_ fucking _state, what’s the point of compliance?”_

_When Kravchenko hits her again_ _, she does not need to exaggerate her fall._

*** 

Even if the dreams left her feeling raw and sick, Sketch learned quickly that they were incredibly instructive. The last one had shown her not only that she had previously unknown gaps in her control—this would need to be addressed if she was going to be useful—but also that usefulness in and of itself would need to be given priority over compliance. 

It meant that her failure to perform personal maintenance wasn’t bad because it was disobedient, but because it made it impossible for her to come out of the room. No one had made this explicit, but Sketch was beginning to think they were giving her a test, and she was failing miserably. 

The Captain had yet to come to her room to see her, even though Bucky had been available each day at the usual time, and it was obvious that it was due to her...general odor. 

So, Sketch resolved to wash herself. 

It took several hours to plan, and she regarded it as just another lesson, another training session she’d need to perform perfectly in. Everything was made easier with this framing. So she planned, and just after her visit with Bucky for the day, she moved forward in her little mission. It was incredibly important that she timed things correctly so that she had several hours between Bucky leaving and the guard arriving with her meal. This gap in which she would be left alone was integral to her performance. 

As she’d told Bucky, she wanted to believe they would not have the same expectation that HYDRA had, but it was too good to believe, and she could not place too much merit in his words. If someone came in and saw that she was in the bathroom, they might have ideas. If they did, she would be unable to complete her task. 

It was hard enough knowing that there was a camera trained on her at all hours. The only reprieve was in the bathroom, so she waited until she’d entered the smaller room and firmly closed the door to undress. 

Her own body felt like a strange and new creature. The hollows at her hips had filled in—only slightly, but she noticed—and there was a fine fuzz of dark hair sprinkled over her stomach she’d never noticed before. Sketch reached a hand down to skim over it, frowning. She marveled at it for a moment before realizing that this all might simply be the result of a more conventional diet being newly introduced. Her handlers had kept her on a liquid diet in order to accommodate for some sort of issue with cryo (" _Y_ _ou can’t freeze a body that’s still digesting, Dennis. Imagine the internal damage. She’ll be absolutely useless”_ ), and while she’d been practicing the consumption of solid foods for weeks leading up to her mission, they were still so new. Her body weight was obviously increasing, something she found herself inexplicably pleased about. 

The rest of her body held even more small changes, but she refrained from wasting any more time. With the clothing off, the smell had intensified, and she felt a streak of humiliation light through her. No one had said a word, while she was in this state. The doctors would have. They always hated when she smelled, always complained to the guards ( _“God, Wallins, can’t you hose her down? She smells like shit”_ ). 

Oh, how Kravchenko would rage at her for this sort of thing, for hesitancy, for being concerned about _person_ things. 

Done with wasting time, Sketch took an arrogant step into the compartment which held the shower. Arrogant because as soon as she’d stepped in, her entire body was wracked with fear. 

While the worst of her nightmares—drowning, always drowning, with warm hands pulling too tightly on her hair—were staged in the room with the tub, she had other, fuzzier impressions of a lesson when a junior agent had practiced his waterboarding technique on her as a display of competence for Lentner. Or moments, after they’d hosed her down, when-- 

But these thoughts were only making it worse. Sketch let out a frustrated growl at her own weakness. 

“Why is this so hard?” she muttered, because she needed to hear her own voice, needed to test out her ability to speak. It was a sort of check-in with herself, something Bucky had suggested a few days ago to remind her she was in a different place now. She asked because they’d never allow such a thing in her lessons. 

It helped, marginally, when no bark of anger or blow rained down on her head, but she still couldn’t _move_. Her legs were locked, leaving her standing naked just inside the shower stall. Wide and unblinking eyes took in cool blue tiles. It didn’t look anything like the other room with it solid concrete walls and the single rusty drain in the center of the floor. That should have helped, because it grounded her in the real-time and space she was in, rather than the nebulous _elsewhere_ she sometimes floated through when she was particularly disconnected. 

But she _was_ particularly disconnected. Right there, in that blue-tiled stall. 

Her body—the one that had changed, the one that felt like her own just a few moments ago—felt numb, and she was filled with the sudden and unpleasant knowledge that it didn’t belong to her. 

Foolish little girls, running around thinking they were even little girls at all. No, no, there were no little girls here, because little girls were giggly and bright, and they had dolls and a pet cat or a gerbil. Little girls ate toast with jam from breakfast, and they had mothers. 

She was only a thing, a tool, of course her body wasn’t _hers_. Nobody, nothing. 

_The lights are flickering and the chair’s halo of electricity powered on, and she knows she’ll be punished, somehow, for trying to use her currents to stop the wipe._

The lights flickered, quick and erratic to meet the pace of her heart. The arcs of electricity surrounding her would have startled a normal girl, which was only further proof that she isn’t one. They danced over the tile, never quite landing long enough to do any damage, but she had very little control over where they landed when she was like this anyway. It was less like directing energy and more like just becoming a human lightning rod. Except she’d pulled all of the lightning out of the wiring in the walls, instead of out of the air—she still didn’t know if she could do that. Probably, maybe. She’d likely dream about it before she actually remembered. 

A part of her that still thought it was a person was concerned, but she ignored it because it was obviously stupid, and sunk down a little, bending over herself too much for what she actually wanted to do. She’d reached out to the knob in the little stall, creeping and manipulating her body oddly—it was wrong, to move this way, but she couldn’t help it, couldn’t help prostrating herself and twisting so the lines of her body were jagged and inhuman—because she wouldn’t have been placed in the stall if not to attend to personal maintenance, and if she’d been ordered to complete that task, that means she was on a mission by herself. So, it’s her first mission, and she’s...somewhere...looking for a girl named Nora who looks enough like her to be useful. A girl with a passing resemblance and a bunch of connections to something that makes her less likely to be HYDRA, a good normal girl. 

But she was going to kill the nice normal girl—or she already had, yes, yes because she hasn’t been in her chair, so she remembers the knife and the blood and burning the body in the acid. She remembered—remembers, will remember, was remembering—getting a speck of acid on her boots and crying about it, malfunctioning and crier harder because what if the handlers were still watching and what if they saw her crying and. 

The water is on. Or the water was on, because this is remembering, maybe, and her time didn’t make sense, had never made sense because they liked to erase so much of her, the colors and pictures and words that used to dance around in her head. The important man, Alexander Pierce, had told them that was how you made a thing, and he knew because he’d cleaned up the sloppy work of the Soviets and made the Asset out of the Soldier. And so they erased her in the chair. But she wasn’t in the chair right now—it had been too long without the chair, and Alexander Pierce would be angry, maybe. Kravchenko was building her all wrong, trying to teach her how to pretend to be a person for a mission. 

The water is/was/will be/had been warm—unusual, outside of protocol—but she didn’t know if she could move the arms again without direct orders. Something is wrong with her arms—the arms, why did that sound wrong, why was it not her body again? 

The water was warm, and she stood under the spray even though it made her nauseous and she was losing the itchy layer of protection that horrible body odor never failed to provide. Personal maintenance means personal maintenance, and even with all the lightning flying around and doing weird things to her newly wet skin she felt suddenly like a person. 

And Sketch was under the water, warm water, softer than a hose, but still water. 

Even as the lightning had been dancing before, it whipped wildly now. The lights had simply gone out at a certain point, and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that the whole floor was like that now. She’d never be able to determine further than that, because of the natural limits of her abilities, but maybe she’d also wiped out the next few floors up and down. Maybe. 

And she’d been out of the chair too long, and she’d gone to a place she shouldn’t be and convinced herself she was Sketch pretending to be Nora pretending to be Sketch. She’d built a layer of normal around herself for this mission, and the water was washing it away. 

When the Captain found out, he might be very angry, and the Soldier—a perfectly made tool, better than her—was doing the same thing she was, being a thing and acting like he was pretending to be a person. 

This was problematic. The water had woken her up, and now it would be harder to go back to having a body that belonged to her, the way the Captain would expect her to act. 

Mechanically, she—Sketch, she’d have to keep calling herself that—grasped at a bottle set on the shelf in the stall and poured too much liquid soap into her hand. She slapped it into her hair, rubbing like she’d seen people on television do. The suds squelched around her fingers, sending flutters of still angry electricity across her scalp. The tangle started to work themselves out, which was good. If they shaved her hair, she would have an even harder time pretending to be a person. 

She was washing the rest of her body, still pondering about whether the soap should be rinsed away, when the door in the other room clanged open. 

A still distant part of her thought she should be distressed, and it wanted her to react, but this felt irrational and strange. The Captain was coming to investigate why she’d turned all the lights off in his base—of course they’d come to question her and punish her for disrupting daily operations. So, she was still washing herself methodically when the Soldier—Bucky, the Asset, the other thing pretending to be a person—came bursting into the bathroom with the Widow and the Captain. He was first—he'd used his metal arm to circumvent the electronic locks—and he was almost met with the full brunt of the electricity that coursed through the air around her. 

She pulled it all back inside of herself—the punishment for killing the Captain’s thing would certainly be worse than simply disrupting daily operations—but that was just as bad, because there was a reason all that lightning wasn’t just skating under her skin. Her body wasn’t big or strong enough to hold all the energy at once, and retracting it only made it burn her. 

The force of it all sent her sprawling across the hard blue tiles on the ground, and she was irritated by the absent realization that she hadn’t gotten all the soap out of her hair. The lights came back on, because the energy had to go somewhere, and suddenly they were all _talking_ at her. ( _“Are you alright?” and “Bucky get away from her_ _!_ _” and “Why is she smiling_ _?”_ ) 

But none of them _touched_ her. 

She felt victorious. 

*** 

They were all quiet after Natasha finished, and maybe they were afraid to draw a breath. Bucky felt raw from it, from the _knowing_. He hated that he’d agreed to this, agreed to them all being here just to listen to more of the shit and fucking rot that HYDRA and the Red Room had done to him. And not just him. To young women with big dark eyes and a knack for setting him off balance. He felt like a harried mother and a raw open wound all at once. 

It wasn’t a pleasant feeling. 

But of course, Stark was the first one to break the silence. He sat, arms crossed over his chest, looking inexplicably petulant. 

“Fucking _commies_ ,” Tony muttered. 

The only one in the room who tensed at that as obviously as Bucky was Steve, who sent Tony that familiar sharp look, one of the things Bucky had been most sorry to lose to HYDRA. The idea that he’d forget Steve’s passion, his drive to help others was terrifying. The fact that he had that familiarity back only helped a little because what else was he missing? Was there some other aspect of his life that was simply a hole in his brain, something else he’d be shocked to have lost in just a few weeks' time? It filled him with a desperate fervor, a need to figure it all out. A need to gather every broken piece of himself together and shove it into the recognizable shape of James Buchanan Barnes. 

The sight of Sketch, hunched in on herself, electricity streaking through the room until she reached out and pulled it all into her chest wouldn’t leave his head. She’d been laughing, high and hysterical when she’d collapsed, hard, onto the tiled floor of the shower stall. And then, after Natasha had shoved them both out and finished cleaning her up, she’d come stumbling out of the bathroom with a wild look on her face. 

The apologies had felt like knives in his gut—too familiar a feeling, at this point—and she kept _talking_ to herself. Short sentences—memories from HYDRA if he knew anything—things people had obviously said about her, about her function as an asset. 

Steve had dragged him out before anything worse could happen—it was already too late for that, he kept reminding himself bitterly—but Natasha reported to the room that Sketch was “suffering through a pretty bad downswing”. 

He wondered how the meetings about him had gone. Did they still have them? He tried not to glare at the room as a whole. 

“Tony, the things you think you know about communism could fill a library,” Steve said, tone still light. The rest of the room seemed to perk up at that. 

From what Bucky had gathered, Steve had a knack for dragging them all into political arguments they were only half invested in or prepared for. It was just like before, when Steve and Mr. Koolick down the hall would bicker about the New Deal and poor Mrs. Koolick would have to sit there and continuously refuse to take a side. He let himself smile at the memory, but only because Steve was staring Tony down instead of staring at him waiting to ask if he was okay. 

Tony let out a sharp laugh, looking exactly like a man who’d had this exact argument about a hundred times. “If you weren’t so insufferable about this, I’d be happy you’re a lefty, Capsicle. Would have given my dad a heart attack. I myself read some Howard Zinn in college, to piss him off. But just like always, you _are_ in fact insufferable.” 

Bucky didn’t remember much about Howard Stark—thankfully?—but he wasn’t surprised that Tony thought his son dipping a toe into socialism in college might piss Howard off. 

“Now boys,” Nat scolded with the practiced air of a frequent diffuser of these sorts of things. 

“No, no, let the second coming of Marx educate me,” Tony said with the wave of a hand. “Not like we haven’t heard this before. Tell us about the golden days of the trade unions, Cap.” 

Bucky snorted. “The only thing Steve knows about Marx he got from me, or Eli from across the street.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. And he was reminded why he tried to avoid this sort of thing. 

Steve’s face brightened, in the way that made Bucky’s gut twist and slither, icy guilt making a mess inside him. Sketch was making everything... _bad_ , again—through no fault of her own—and it was obvious Steve was scrambling. But he shouldn’t have said anything, because it was one thing to talk about politics, to remember the marches and the reading groups and the picketing, but it was another to give Steve that tentative hope that he was himself again, wholly and truly. 

“That’s not true,” Steve protested, because of course he did, even though Bucky knew that he hated reading—hated reading theory most of all—and preferred the simplicity of grand speeches and good old union songs. His best friend let others—namely Bucky—worry about the philosophy. He knew what was right and he’d fight for it, but he was wasn’t reading a huge book they couldn’t even afford to lug around, let alone buy in the first place. 

Bucky sent him a doubtful look. He tried to ignore the urge to leave the room, to crush Steve’s hopes before they got to strong. 

“I caught up,” Steve insisted. “Read everything I could, once I woke up. Only good thing about ebooks is they don’t take up space.” 

“You bought--” Sam was laughing too hard to finish, bending a bit at the knee as he waved away Wanda’s concerned look. “You _read_ Karl Marx...on a kindle?” 

“Have you seen _Capital_? It's fucking huge.” Barton quipped, and Bucky was surprised for a second, but the amused glint in Barton’s eyes told him enough. Barton seemed like the sort to delight in arguments like this. 

“That’s not the issue,” Sam chuckled. “It’s more the Amazon product usage.” 

“Can we,” Bruce began, in that calm way Bucky realized he used when they were all scrambling not to address a particularly uncomfortable subject, “get back to the matter at hand? Namely, how Sketch managed to wipe out the functions of three whole floors?” 

Natasha nodded along, obviously as concerned as Bruce, if a little better at dealing with diversions. “She told Bruce she had limits, and a level of precision—but that didn’t feel very _controlled_.” 

“She knocked Friday off for an hour. Shouldn’t have been able to do that,” Tony told them. He looked frustrated by that. “Friday’s got backups on top of backups on top of backups, and she’d not even connected to the system like that. Plus, the electronic locks are independently powered. Which means the little livewire wasn’t just messing with the wiring.” 

“She was obviously in the middle of a psychotic break,” Sam offered, as helpful as ever. His frown looked both thoughtful and genuinely sympathetic. “Dr. Cho did say the water could be a trigger for her.” 

“Yeah, except when we have a panic attack, all we do is cause a little minor property damage,” Tony snapped. “Or, well, sometimes major property damage. But only after really bad panic attacks, and only when we’re really drunk. And Pepper’s not around to stop us.” 

“You keep saying _we_ there, buddy,” Barton said. He looked amused, but he’d risen from his chair to stretch his legs in what might have been a casual way if it wasn’t Clint doing it. Bucky wondered if he was actually that anxious, or if all the problems they were dealing with just felt worse because he missed his dog. “Last time _I_ had a flashback all I did was break a mug.” 

Tony sent him a sharp look. “And last time our dear Captain had one, he woke us all up for a morning jog through knee-high water and called it a training exercise. My _point_ is, we’ve all got a screw loose, but not all of us are actually secret EMPs.” 

Steve let out a particularly harsh sigh that had them all turning to stare at him. Bucky cringed at the look of exhaustion across his face. “We knew this might happen, Tony. And you said we would just need to figure out a way to circumvent her powers. It’s not her fault we haven’t actually done that yet.” 

“Steve,” Natasha said before Tony could launch into another explanation of just why he _hadn’t_ figured that out yet. They’d all tried to sit patiently the last time, but once he started throwing out complicated scientific terms, Bucky couldn't even put in the effort. “I get it. I get why helping her is important. But maybe we should be letting Shield help. They’re still rebuilding, but they still have more experience with stuff like this. Fury offered to--” 

“You should be the last one volunteering to give her to Fury,” Steve snapped. Bucky didn’t voice his own thoughts—however much he agreed, obviously—but that was only because he wasn’t ready to test out how much weight they might carry. Plus, they might chalk it all up to lingering paranoia about HYDRA agents in the new Shield. 

Except it _wasn’t_ paranoia if it was logical fear. Natasha could put blind faith in Fury if she wanted to, but Bucky would never trust someone who might have called Pierce a friend of theirs. It was hard enough to reconcile the fact that _Steve_ had sat across from Pierce and hadn’t seen the rot he was hiding behind that charismatic smile. 

“I’m not saying we hand her over to Fury and you know that,” Natasha said. 

Did they know that? Bucky wasn’t so sure. 

“Then what?” he asked, barely restraining his own anger. It was the first thing he’d said since they’d found Sketch in the shower, and Natasha seemed surprised to hear him. Or, if it was anyone other than Natasha, they might have seemed surprised. On her face, it came off more like a slight quirk of her brow. 

“How about some advice? Fury and Coulson oversaw my deprogramming, along with the deprogramming of several other agents. Clint and I could bounce ideas off of some old contacts if they get us in touch. We’d have a clearer idea of what we’re doing.” 

Barton nodded, just like Bucky would have expected. He and Natasha usually presented a united front on this sort of thing. 

Well, if they wanted to start drawing lines in the sand, Bucky could do that too. He sent Steve a look, something filled with all the frustration and anxiety he could handle displaying in front of others. It felt...well it felt manipulative, and he would never be proud of using Steve like this, but he didn’t have a lot of options. No one else in this room would be as quick to jump to his defense as Steve. 

“Fury didn’t help with Bucky,” Steve said. 

It was probably the least helpful thing he could have said. 

Bucky was not a good example of recovery or psychological health. Sam made sure to tell him that a lot, in the way he asked kind, probing questions and kept trying to get Bucky to find a hobby. Not outright shows of concern, but enough delicate prodding so that Bucky knew he wasn’t actually _fine_. 

He still underslept, still didn’t get the necessary calories in, and he still couldn’t handle going out into public. The only thing keeping him relatively sane was Steve. 

_By the Grace of Steve go I._

So no, he wasn’t a good example of anyone’s ability to rehabilitate former HYDRA prisoners. And the look on Natasha’s face made that crystal clear. 

“Do we really have to respond to that?” Tony asked, because of course he did. 

“Tony, I’m not--” Steve began, and he was leveling him with his special “I’m disappointed in you” look which had never failed to make Bucky feel like the worst sort of scum when they were kids and he was being too selfish for Steve to handle. 

But before he could launch into a lecture or something, Friday said, “Apologies for the interruption, Captain Rogers, but there’s another issue in the guest wing. Miss Sketch is asking to speak with you and Sergeant Barnes.” 

“That’s an issue?” Sam asked. 

“She’s also attempting to dismantle the furniture in her room.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from John Donne's Holy Sonnet #5. All his Holy Sonnets are really cool but that one's always been a favorite of mine. 
> 
> Also, some of this was kind of experimental, and I think the fic is gonna start moving in that direction more often, so just let me know if it's awful or hard to parse.


End file.
